


let's stop running

by bewarethesmirk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Evil Witches, Jealousy, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pining, Truth Spells, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/pseuds/bewarethesmirk
Summary: Stiles does his best to hide his massive hard-on from Derek. Really. He does. He also tries to sleep in between keeping his pack alive.But this is his life and there's life or death circumstances and magic and truth spells.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quirky_chemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quirky_chemist/gifts).

> As someone who misses the often campy Monster of the Week pre-Season 3 Sterek fic desperately (the golden era of 2012), but often loves some of the characteristics of later Sterek fic, almost a year ago I set out to write what _I_ wanted to write, which I hope is some mixture of the two: a different sort of Derek that feels more familiar to us now and an almost ridiculous overplayed plot that is still fun to read and write. I'm posting this a bit at a time in part because it's not completely done and in part because I look forward to the feedback.
> 
> Thanks to suburbanmotel, venivincere, and quirky_chemist for all of your help. Any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> The rating will go up in later chapters and tags will be added.

Stiles is sleeping soundly—no, _blissfully_—when his phone screeching “Hungry Like The Wolf” drags him away from a delicious dream of biting kisses against the base of his neck. He flails for his phone on his nightstand, cursing the world and his horribly ill-timed caller, barely getting the damn thing in hand without causing grievous injury to himself or the phone. 

His alarm clock reveals it’s 2:32 a.m. in angry red numbers—or maybe it’s just Stiles that’s angry. Stiles would keep his phone in Do Not Disturb mode like every other intelligent person on earth wanting sleep, but Stiles is on Wolf Patrol, 24/7/365. No paid time off for this sucker.

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Stiles answers the phone without glancing at the screen. The ringtone is a dead giveaway. 

“This better be good,” Stiles says into the phone, voice deep and scratchy from sleep. 

“When do I ever call with good news in the middle of the night?” Derek says from the other end. Stiles can hear his eyebrows raising. It’s a thing.

“You don’t call with good news ever,” Stiles snaps, perhaps a little more than necessary. His dick is raging hard from his dream. He just wants to jerk himself off and go back the fuck to sleep, like, you know, a normal person.

Derek hasn’t said anything else. It’s just his quiet breathing across the line, and Stiles scowls. “How can I serve you, Your Majesty?”

Derek might snort over the line. “Isaac was doing his rounds in the Preserve and he smelled witches.”

Stiles abruptly sits up, slipping the phone between his cheek and shoulder. Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he hopes that if he blocks out the world, he might recover some of the sanity he’s lost due to sleep deprivation and post traumatic stress. Sadly, it doesn’t work, and the world is just as topsy-turvy as it always is.

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles says, eyes still closed, hands still to his face. “Werewolves can smell witches. Like, _how_? Do they have bad BO? I mean—I guess with the warts—maybe they don’t have the best hygiene. And they probably smell like shrivelfigs and belladonna—”

“_That’s_ what you took from what I said?”

“Ugh.” Derek is so infuriating. It’s like just because his puppies have never met the word “meticulous”, he expects Stiles to have no attention to detail. Which he does. In spades. “Don’t think I’m letting you get away with this.” Stiles sighs. “But for now—witches. Is Isaac okay? Did he get strung up by his scarf?” He sits up, letting his hands fall, surveying his room in the dim light of the moon cascading across his floor. 

“Isaac is fine,” Derek says. “He didn’t encounter the witches, only detected them by scent. But I doubt they’re here for a peaceful convention.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I doubt they’re here in Beacon Hills to sprinkle happy fairy dust on us.” Stiles pauses. That reminds him of a porno he saw once. He carefully doesn’t think about that.

“I need you and Scott to investigate tomorrow,” Derek says. “Have Scott go to the Preserve, to the southwestern section. See what he can smell, but don’t let him do anything stupid.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Why can’t _you_ call Scott? Or creep into his bedroom as you are so wont to do? I’m not his keeper, dude.”

“Just do it.” Stiles just knows that Derek’s eyes flash red. Maybe Stiles watches Derek a little too closely since he can easily imagine Derek on the other side of the call, but keep your enemies close and all that good stuff. Not that Derek is his enemy. And not _too_ close. Ugh, focus. “And I need you to go to that magic store on Third Street that you get your ingredients from.”

Stiles smiles a bit. “You want me to do some reconnaissance, buddy?”

“I want you to find out if the witches have been to the shop. If there’s anyone new in town. Beth might know something.”

Beth keeps the hidden magic shop in Beacon Hills. Stiles has built up quite the rapport with her since he’s been expanding his Spark capabilities.

“I’ll bring Lydia,” Stiles says, smirking. “Beth has taken a shine to Lydia. I mean, who can blame her? Lydia is—”

“I don’t have time to hear you wax poetic about Lydia,” Derek snarls. Jesus, tone down the angry. “Just find something out and let me know what you learn.”

And with that, Derek hangs up. 

Stiles glares at the phone. Derek has generally mellowed out a bit, grown into his Alphaness, but sometimes he still gets so irritable at the oddest of times. Like when Stiles was telling him about how he had been struggling with a passage in the Bestiary until Lydia saved him like the goddess she was. Or when the pack was at the diner and, out of nowhere, Derek had taken the empty milkshake cup from him so abruptly that the straw he had been chewing was left dangling from his lips. After a split second, Derek yanked that away as well, leaving Stiles confused as Derek offered a short, “It was empty.” 

When Derek gets irritable like this, Stiles wants to push him against a wall and kill him. With his mouth.

_Fuck_. He needs to stop this. This thinking. It’s helping no one. So he resolves to go to The Cosmic Arcana tomorrow with Lydia in tow to see if there’s any news about witches.

Fucking witches. 

Stiles flops back on the bed and quickly returns to his blissful sleep. This time, the biting kisses are joined by the abrasive rub of a very familiar beard against the warm-soft skin of his neck.

*

Stiles leans by Scott’s locker as Scott drags out all the books he needs for his morning classes. Books, Stiles is willing to wager, that he probably needed for homework last night.

“Why didn’t he call _me_?” Scott asks with the furrow he gets between his eyebrows when he’s confused. “I mean, he sneaks through your window all the time.”

“Lies! It is not all the time,” Stiles interrupts. “It’s only _some_ of the time.”

Oh, how he wishes it were all the time. Stiles also wishes that Derek’s clandestine visits under the cover of night were more dick related and less research related. Stiles is half hard in the school hallway before 8 a.m. at the prospect alone. It’s not the first time this has happened to Stiles, nor the earliest, surprisingly. Or is it _un_surprisingly?

Scott’s eyebrows rise, most likely in response to the arousal now wafting off Stiles like a bad cologne. 

“What makes picking up the phone to tell me all this himself any harder than breaking and entering?”

Stiles palms his face. “Don’t ask me to psychologically deconstruct Derek. We’d be here all day. That’s harder that Mr. Harris’ stoichiometry homework. Anyway, here’s what you need to do.” He recounts his conversation with Derek once more to make sure Scott understands his mission. Sometimes it takes a few repetitions for Scott to get with the program. 

“So, southwestern section? That’s huge. Was he more specific?”

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the “p.” The warning bell rings for first period and Stiles winces. He hasn’t even been to his own locker yet. 

School bells must be meaningless to Scott since he opens his mouth, undoubtedly to ask more questions about Derek’s instructions. Stiles pokes Scott in the chest, cutting him off. “No,” he says. “Isaac was the one who found the witches, so harass him if you need to.” Stiles smiles at Scott’s frustrated expression. “Besides, I have my own sordid mission.”

With that bomb dropped, he makes a beeline towards his own locker in the science hall. If he’s a little proud that Derek entrusted him with something to do, well, fuck it. Stiles doesn’t like being bored or left out.

That’s all.

*

That afternoon, just before AP European History, Stiles runs into Lydia and draws her away from the herds of people congregating in the hallway. They’re in an alcove, sequestered away, when she raises a haughty eyebrow at him.

Now, who does that remind Stiles of? Ugh, why does Stiles have a type? 

“Witches,” Stiles says, hoping to capture her attention. 

Lydia nods in understanding. “Yeah, Erica told me at lunch.”

Stiles is confused since Erica and Lydia don’t really talk outside of pack meetings and catastrophic wranglings with the supernatural (so maybe twice a week). 

“Huh.” Stiles shakes his head. “Anyway. Derek wants me to go investigate The Cosmic Arcana after school. Put my ear to the ground.” He trails off, knowing Lydia will deduce his master plan. 

Lydia’s head tilts and she purses her plum-tinted lips. Then she smiles slyly. “Beth,” she says. 

Until this point, Stiles had been unsure whether or not Lydia had cottoned on to Beth’s interest. That answers that question.

“Beth,” Stiles agrees, smirking.

“I have debate after school until 4:30. but I’m free after that. Meet in the parking lot?”

“Sure.”

“With Starbucks?”

“Who am I to deny my queen?”

*

After school, Stiles takes advantage of the time he has by going home to shower, since he’d neglected it this morning in favor of a quick bird bath. His dreams had been so pornographic, especially after his early morning not-so-booty call from Derek, that he had woken up humping his mattress and scratching at his own neck where he desperately wanted bites and bruises to be. He’d come, whimpering into his pillows, with long drags of his hips against his bedsheets.

He’d been so tired after coming his brains out, he’d drifted back to sleep and then had woken up late, as usual, with those same damned angry red numbers alerting him it was way-too-fucking-late o’clock. He needed to shower, especially when he was surrounded by werewolves and their sensitive noses. If they could smell witch BO, they could smell that Stiles reeked like a one-man brothel. But he’d only had time to quickly wet a washcloth and clean dried come from his treasure trail and abdomen. 

It was basically becoming his morning routine these days. He could make a YouTube video about it.

He changes into burgundy khakis and a beloved old Mets shirt that is too tight. 

Stiles is back at school in perfect time to meet Lydia with coffee for both of them. He knows Lydia’s coffee order from too many nights spent researching, and then later, the many nights spent staying up to talk about college and Jackson and guilt. 

He probably shouldn’t have bought coffee for himself, but he was exhausted, so whatevs.

At 4:45, Lydia comes out, backpack hoisted on her shoulder and iPhone in hand, where she types furiously. 

Jackson moving to London hasn’t been easy for her. Probably not for Jackson either, but Stiles doesn’t give a shit about Jackson. 

Lydia glides over to the Jeep and hops in. She accepts her nonfat, iced latte with an outstretched hand, all the while typing at a frenetic speed with the other. 

Stiles rubs his hands together once the cup is taken from him. “Time for Mission: Seduction to Locate Witches.”

Lydia laughs. “That’s a horrible name.”

Stiles laughs, too. It really is.

*

Choosing to park two blocks away—pure subterfuge in case his dad or any of the deputies drive by and want to make tabs—Stiles and Lydia duck into the space between two larger office buildings where Beth’s apothecary, The Cosmic Arcana, is located downtown—or what passes for downtown in Beacon Hills.

By outward appearances, it’s an amalgamation of a kitschy gift store, beauty boutique and home remedy shop. These kinds of apothecaries are common enough in small towns like this that people don’t overthink it. Beth sells oils and other tinctures that are popular with a lot of the locals and visitors alike (why the hell someone would want to visit Beacon Hills, of all places, is beyond Stiles). To the magically inclined, though, the shop has a huge back section that makes up the heart of the store. It’s full of books, ingredients, and all manner of equipment. Beth also does a bit of consulting on the side, so her office—her real office—is also in the back. 

Deaton had directed Stiles to the shop back when Stiles had first tapped into his Spark abilities and was interested in taking them to the next level. He’s gotten a bit better since then. Okay, _a lot_ better, thanks to Beth’s help. Beth points Stiles in the right direction every time and she’s discreet as hell, the proverbial Switzerland in Beacon Hill’s supernatural turf wars.

As they’re walking down the alleyway between the two buildings, Lydia abruptly changes the subject from the huge AP European History paper they’d just landed during class today to something far less safe and mundane. 

“So,” she says, eyebrow raised and taking a delicate sip of what remains of her latte while she scrutinizes him. It’s never an expression that bodes well for Stiles’ preference towards avoidance and self-denial; he feels like he’s a bug under a microscope. 

Stiles flings his hand in the air and gravel crunches under his Vans. “Don’t beat around the bush. You’re killing me here.” He widens his eyes imploringly at her and waves his hand in a gesture approximating _Well, let’s hear it._

Lydia smirks, looking endlessly amused and a little fond. “Fine,” she says. “I can’t help but notice it was Derek who sent you on this so-called mission.”

“So?” Stiles says, the rebuttal of mature adults everywhere. 

“So, he usually just has you researching stuff. I assumed he would be too afraid to let his precious human be put in danger.”

Stiles spits out an ill-timed sip of coffee. Lydia backs up, disgusted, reaching into her bag for a small package of tissues and imperiously holds out the pocket of tissues to him.

With an eye roll, he grabs the package and tries to mop up the coffee from his arms. 

When they’re almost at the door to the shop—thank fuck—Lydia pauses and crosses her arms. “You didn’t respond.” She scrunches up her nose. “Verbally.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s a trip to the apothecary. You know I’m here all the time, anyway.” 

Lydia just stares at him. “You can’t possibly be this obtuse.”

“I can assure you I can be,” he says, grinning, and pushes past her into the shop. 

Beyond the heavy mahogany door, Stiles is pleased to see that one of Beth’s helpers is out front, showing a woman in an extraordinarily ugly straw hat several different oils while the woman inquires about a treatment for bunions. 

The smell of heavy incense never fails to make Stiles cough pathetically as he nods at Beth’s helper, Alyssa. Although Alyssa is in the know about the inner workings of the shop, she exclusively works in the front. She knows Stiles and Lydia by now, and they easily pass by her and make their way towards the back through a claustrophobia-inducing corridor. 

The boards creak ominously under their feet as they make their way through. The narrow corridor is lit only by a low fluorescent bulb that casts the old hallway in an eerie orange glow. 

Lydia unfastens a few buttons on her shirt as they walk down the hall. That’s what Stiles loves about working with Lydia: unlike a lot of Derek’s pack, she doesn’t need directing. Hell, Lydia does the directing.

Stiles slides by Lydia when they reach the door at the end of the hallway, which appears to be a dead end, but they know better. The first few times it had taken him several tries to enter the room and mandated a lot of will on his part. Even that small action had left him magically drained. Now, merely a stray brush of Stiles’ hand commands the door to open. He smiles.

When they cross the entryway into the back room, the door slams shut behind them of its own volition. Temperamental bastard.

The back room is like a playground for Stiles. His shoulders slump in relief as he breathes in the lavender and spearmint fusion scenting the air. The shelves are redone in light wood and lined with books and jars chock full of ingredients. It’s immaculate but approachable. Stiles could stay here for hours, and sometimes he does.

Stiles winks at Lydia over his shoulder as he heads toward Beth’s office where he can hear the faint tapping of fingernails against a keyboard. The office door is open, and Stiles has no doubt Beth can sense that they’re here.

“Stiles,” Beth calls over her shoulder. “Just a moment—gotta finish writing to this—waste of human space.” Beth grits out the words between her teeth as she types, and Stiles grins. Beth is not fond of people, generally, but with some of the clientele she gets, Stiles can hardly blame her. 

With a flourish of her mouse, Beth clicks Send on her email and turns around, her gaze landing first on Stiles, but quickly tracking over to Lydia and lingering. Inwardly, Stiles does a victory dance.

“Lydia,” Beth says, smiling. She’s all dark hair and eyes with vampy lipstick. “The wards never do pick up on you.”

Lydia’s shrug is a small movement against Stiles’ arm. “I’m immune to most things magical.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, revealing her collarbone and a considerable amount of cleavage.

“So I’ve heard,” Beth says. “You’re a woman of some mystery.”

“I bet you enjoy solving mysteries,” Stiles says, grinning. He’s not a pyromaniac, but he might as well fan this flame.

Beth cuts her gaze over to him, but instead of looking annoyed, Stiles is pleased to see that she’s amused. She squeezes past Lydia into the larger space. Music plays softly but otherwise the soundproofing ensures there’s no other noise. 

“What can I do for you two?” Beth asks, dragging her gaze away from Lydia and to Stiles, where he’s examining angelica root in a jar. “Are you out of mugwort already, Stiles?”

“Nah.” Stiles puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels. “I haven’t had time to work on the spell much lately. You know, with all the efforts of not dying last week.”

“I’m glad you succeeded.” Beth leans her hip against the counter. “The harpies?” Beth asks, with a knowing twist to her mouth. She’s aware of them from Stiles’ most recent frantic visit to the shop, begging for her help with a warding potion.

Stiles nods emphatically. “The harpies of which we do not speak. They That Shall Not be Named and Will Never Return Again.” The warding potion had excelled, to say the least. Stiles opens his mouth to complain about the harpies and their horribly ugly faces, about to break his solemn oath of not speaking of them, the stuff of nightmares, but as usual, Lydia saves him from himself.

“We’re actually here to find out if you’ve heard anything about any new spellcasters in town,” Lydia says, turning her attention to Beth, and while Stiles is somewhat surprised by her bluntness, he’s also not surprised. Beth shoots straight from the hip and doesn’t like others wasting her time.

“Spellcasters?” Beth asks, brow furrowing.

Lydia stays silent, and Stiles forcibly keeps his mouth shut.

Luckily, Beth is used to them asking for information. She doesn’t usually give them a lot, but she is better than Deaton, not all smoke and mirrors.

“I haven’t heard anything new,” Beth says, contemplating, polished fingernails tapping against the wooden countertop. 

“We don’t know much yet,” Lydia admits. “They might be flying below the radar.” She shrugs and tugs at the collar of her shirt, casually but purposefully. “Has anyone new come in here lately? Even for something innocuous?”

They’ve seen how some of the most basic of ingredients can wreak havoc.

Beth continues thinking, shaking her head before realizing. “Actually, we did have someone come in last week,” she says. “Someone new.”

“I know you can’t tell us much,” Lydia says, low, coming close and resting her hand on Beth’s arm carefully. Beth, who normally doesn’t like to be touched, doesn’t pull away. “But anything will help.”

“You’re insufferable,” Beth says, her eyes narrowing, like she knows exactly what Lydia is doing, and yet she still sounds fond. Like she approves. More than approves. Beth shoots a glance between Stiles and Lydia, deliberating. 

They wait it out, the shop quiet around them except for the low hum of classical music, their steady breathing. And there’s Lydia’s hand, still on Beth’s arm, weighty and tense.

“Fine,” Beth says, staring at Lydia, “but you owe me.”

“Done,” Lydia says, and removes her hand, but stays close.

“A woman came in last week,” Beth looks between Stiles and Lydia, “Young, probably a college student or of college student age. Pretty, long blonde hair. Seemed shy. She did ask for three ingredients, all _seemingly innocuous_,” she glances over at Lydia, “but are common ingredients in potions related to the mind.”

“Like memory potions?” Stiles asks.

“More like mind-reading and retrieving memories and thoughts. Or twisting them.”

“Mind control?” Lydia asks.

“Possibly,” Beth agrees. 

“Did our mystery woman happen to reveal anything else?” Stiles asks. “Like, if she’s seeking an army of werewolves to control?”

Beth smiles, wry. “She neglected to mention her master plans, I’m afraid.”

“Well, damn,” Stiles says, with a dejected swing of his arm that’s all for show. “I guess we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled.” He makes a face. “That sounds gross. Nevermind. No eye peeling.”

Beth rolls her eyes and leads Lydia over to show her a new text that’s apparently in Latin, Beth claiming she needs Lydia’s translating advice.

_Translating advice_, Stiles thinks, as he watches them bend closely together over the open tome. _That’s what all the kids say these days._

And that’s just another prime example of the weirdness that is his life.


	2. Chapter 2

After dropping Lydia off at home, Stiles reasons that if he goes over to Derek’s now and delivers their limited but existing findings to him, he can procrastinate homework. It’s not like he had been _planning_ on going over. It’s just convenient.

The elevator in Derek’s building is out of order, so Stiles trudges up the four flights to the top floor of the newly renovated old warehouse. Derek moved into a larger loft up here after his last one was destroyed by trolls. It has plenty of room for Isaac, Erica and Boyd to live—as much as any domicile has enough room for those scoundrels. 

By the time Stiles makes it to the landing of Derek’s floor, he’s winded, sweaty and generally hating life. That is, of course, the best time for Stiles, in all his disgusting glory, to see Derek. Derek is leaning against the wall outside of the door to his loft, apparently waiting for him, with his eyebrows raised and his mouth twitching upwards in increments, like he wants to stay straight-faced but can’t in light of Stiles’ wheezing and sweating.

“Don’t even start with me,” Stiles spits as he stalks by Derek and through the open door of the loft. Once he’s standing in the middle of the room, he turns. Derek closes the door behind him and folds his arms across his chest. Derek doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. Derek’s…_Derek_ness...does the talking for him. There are muscles on display through his henley that are entirely unfair, and Derek’s beard has grown out some in the past few days. It looks soft, like it might need Stiles to rub his face against it. He still looks amused, like Stiles is his favorite inside joke, mouth curled just enough that Stiles wants to press his thumb to it, memorize its feel and plot how to keep it there forever.

Maybe he should have just worked on his AP Euro History essay. That would have been safer than this. Dealing with the harpies again would be safer than _this_.

He puts a hand to his chest, staring down Derek, like it’s his fault. Stiles is still out of breath. “Why is the elevator out?”

His face turns serious. “Do you really want to know?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No!” He waves a hand. “I just asked because I like to hear myself talk.” 

Derek is silent.

“Yes, _yes_, I want to know.”

“Well,” Derek says, face becoming even more deadpan, something sly lurking behind it, “Erica and Boyd were in the elevator consummating their—”

“Nope!” Stiles says, feeling his face heat and throwing his hands over his ears. “I take it back, I don’t want to know!” Stiles stares at the ceiling, asking for holy intervention.

When no such intervention is forthcoming, he peeks at Derek to see that the asshole is smiling again—which, in this case, means his mouth is curled up almost imperceptibly. Despite the, okay, not so horrible thoughts of Erica and Boyd…_consummating_...in his head, Stiles can’t help but smile, too. 

After they stare at each other for a few moments, Derek clears his throat and moves towards the kitchen. Stiles follows on autopilot.

“What did you find out?” Derek asks from where he’s ducked down into the fridge to pull out two bottles of water. He hands one to Stiles, which Stiles accepts. Derek grabs a French Press and coffee beans, and starts to grind for brewing. Derek is such a coffee snob. It’s lucky that Stiles likes his coffee, so he doesn’t make fun. Much. Stiles is silent while Derek works, mesmerized by the deft, confident movements of his strong, broad hands. 

Stiles clears his throat. 

“What makes you think I learned anything?” he asks with a shrug and, uncapping his water, takes a long drag. When he looks up, Derek is watching him. Stiles is confused until he feels water dripping down his chin, neck and onto his shirt. Ugh, he’s doomed to embarrass himself in front of Derek forever. He drags a hand over his chin.

Derek shakes his head minutely, as if clearing it, and uncaps his own water. He just raises his eyebrows as he drinks, seemingly saying _I’m not justifying your bullshit with an answer_. 

“Lydia and I went by the shop,” Stiles explains as he follows Derek back into the living room. Stiles catches the stiffening of Derek’s shoulders. It’s subtle, but Stiles is a translator extraordinare of Derek Hale’s non verbal mannerisms. Stiles still hasn’t determined what Derek’s beef with Lydia is. 

They sit on the couch, and Stiles carefully keeps his distance. The pack is largely tactile and always on top of each other, but being that way with Derek? Therein lies madness for Stiles.

“She was the kingpin in my master plan.” Stiles grins, wiggling his fingers in the air as though showcasing his genius. 

Derek, for his part, looks unimpressed.

Ugh, fine. Such a sourwolf. Stiles jumps to the chase and relays what Beth had described to him and Lydia about the young blonde girl purchasing ingredients.

“Mind reading?” Derek asks.

“Or other related spells. The ingredients have varied uses. I got a list from Beth before I left and I’ll research it tonight if I have some time,” Stiles stares at the place on his wrist where his nonexistent watch is, “between 1:07 and 1:30 a.m. The normal time I have carved out for saving your fluffy asses.”

Derek’s face darkens. “If you don’t want to help—”

“No!’ Stiles says, voice perhaps too high and cracking. _God, I’m tired_. “I want to help,” he says softly and too-truthfully. “I will help.”

Derek stares at him for a moment, then his expression does something complicated before he stands up and walks in the direction of the kitchen. Stiles doesn’t follow, just sits there, carefully not thinking of how worn thin he is, how he’s trying to hold himself together but all the while slowly falling apart. He’s held together by nothing but tape that’s slowly unraveling.

When Derek returns with a steaming cup of coffee in Stiles’ favorite mug, Stiles’ overextended brain doesn’t quite register what he’s seeing. He notes the color of the coffee, surmises Derek has prepared it with milk just like he likes it, and Stiles can’t handle this. 

What’s Derek playing at?

When Stiles looks up at Derek, his face is blank and he’s carefully focused on the bookshelf across the room. Stiles reaches out and hesitantly takes the mug when it’s clear Derek is not going to look at him, which just sets off his alarm bells even further. Derek’s hands are sure and stable, whereas Stiles’ tremble.

A terrible thought strikes Stiles: Derek is about to tell him he doesn’t want his help after all and he’s trying to soften the blow by being overly nice. That can be the only explanation to this bizzare demonstration of...care. 

“Um,” he says, surprised at how comforting the heat of the mug is against his hands where they’re stretched around it. “Thanks?”

Derek grunts and returns to the couch, sitting further away from Stiles this time. 

Maybe Derek is still irritated with him for admitting he has a lot to do.

But he did make him coffee.

Maybe with the ulterior motive of keeping Stiles caffeinated enough to work on researching witches all night.

Ugh. Stiles’ head hurts. He takes a sip of the most delicious, perfect coffee ever and can’t help it when he moans. Loudly.

He expects Derek to look smug, but Derek only appears to be fixated on the bookcase again.

“Scott,” Derek says at random, like he’s plucked the name from the air. 

“Scott,” Stiles repeats.

“Did he go to the Preserve?”

“Oh,” Stiles says. Honestly, he had forgotten completely about Scott’s part in the plan. 

“Honestly, I’d completely forgotten about Scott,” Stiles says. “And, while we’re on the subject, why don’t you ever just call him?”

For the first time since bringing the coffee over, Derek looks at him and puts on a show of shrugging hugely in a parody of confusion because when did Derek Hale ever explain his motives to anyone, let alone Stiles? Also, Derek likely knew it would annoy Stiles to no end, the bastard. “Why _don’t_ we just call him?” Derek says, mimicking Stiles voice in a higher tone that doesn’t sound _at all_ like Stiles, okay?

“I hate you,” Stiles says as he reaches for his phone and calls Scott.

Derek only rolls his eyes and returns his stare across the room as Stiles puts Scott on speakerphone and lies the phone on the couch between them.

“‘Sup?” Scott answers. It’s a shock that he answers on the first attempt.

“Hey, Scotty. I’m here. We’re here.” He gestures around the room. 

“Who is we?”

“Me and Derek,” Stiles says, taking a sip of coffee.

“You and Derek.” Scott repeats, sounding adorably confused. “Why are you with Derek?”

“Why wouldn’t I be with Derek?”

Derek’s eyebrow twitches at Stiles’ words and they’re greeted by silence from Scott’s end of the line.

“Um, I mean,” Stiles amends, “since he’s the big bad Alpha and wanted us to get to the bottom of the witch sitch.”

“I still don’t understand—”

“Enough,” Derek cuts in, as if the conversation is giving him a migraine. “Scott, did you go to the Preserve or not?”

Stiles will be Team Scott to his dying day, but Stiles secretly loves seeing Derek go all Alpha. 

“Yeah,” Scott says after more than ten seconds of silence where Stiles has to make sure Scott hasn’t hung up the phone in a fit of rage. “I went to the southwestern section—really specific, by the way—and I smelled the witch, too.”

“Witch singular?” Stiles asks to clarify.

“Huh?”

“Like, did you smell one witch or an orgy of witches?”

“That’s weird, dude,” Scott says. “One witch.”

“Did you detect anything else?” Derek asks. “Emotions, any traces of a spell or other evidence of disruption or magic?”

“No,” Scott says. “Nothing, dude. No trail of anything.”

“Thanks for nothing, Scott!” Stiles says cheerfully.

The last few minutes of the call are filled with Derek giving instructions to patrol further into the woods tomorrow. Stiles leans his head back against the sofa and listens to Derek’s commands and Scott’s muted replies, taking the occasional sip of his coffee, until his eyes are closed.

*

When Stiles first breaches the surface of consciousness, he thinks he’s still dreaming because things like this don’t happen outside of his dreams. Derek is crouched in front of him, with one hand on Stiles’ knee, the warmth of it bleeding into Stiles’ skin through his pants. The world is hazy and heavy, and Derek himself looks like a mirage, soft-edged, face more open than Stiles has ever seen it.

“Derek,” Stiles says, reaching for the hand on his knee, because he can. It’s a dream. He can allow himself this one fleeting, selfish touch.

When he does touch Derek’s skin, so hot and so _real_, he pulls away, as if burned.

The jolt away from Derek wakes Stiles up fully. Stiles’ fingers still tingle from touching Derek’s hand, and his mouth is dry.

He feels even more exhausted than he did when he fell asleep, however long ago that was, anxiety eating away at his nerves. He attempts to sit up as Derek rises from his haunches to his feet in a smooth graceful movement, and just fuck that dude, really. 

“What time is it?” Stiles asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You only slept an hour,” Derek said. “It’s about 7:30.” 

Stiles notices that the coffee he’d been drinking is still on his tongue but the cup is no longer present, which means Derek removed it from his hands before he slopped coffee all over himself. 

“Scott,” Stiles says. “Is he—?”

Derek nods, like he knows what Stiles was about to say. “He’s going to go out to look tomorrow and patrol the Preserve for any other signs. I’m going to join him.”

“What?” Stiles asks. Sure, Scott and Derek get along better than they used to, but that isn’t exactly saying much. This is more than Stiles feels prepared to handle; the last thing he needs is for two werewolves going mano a mano. “I’m gonna have to go to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “The witches aren’t going to kill us, Stiles.”

“I meant by _each other_.” 

Derek narrows his eyes and must decide Stiles isn’t worth the effort. Par for the course, really. Well, that’s fine, because par for the course also: Stiles is going to go anyway. 

Derek hones in on him, studying Stiles intently. Again. 

Stiles really can’t deal with it, so he rubs his eyes to try to wake the fuck up. He has chores at home, a mountain of homework, an even bigger mountain of research to do on potential mental-related spells involving the ingredients their maybe-witch requested from Beth. 

The silence stretches out and Stiles feels pinpricks of nervousness against his skin where Derek’s gaze is like a tangible touch, and he may or may not be blushing. 

“Let me drive you home,” Derek says after a minute. It’s not a question.

Stiles pulls his hands away from his face, nose wrinkling in confusion. He shifts on the couch as he moves into a more seated position. “Um, I drove here?” 

“You’re too tired to drive.”

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles tries to puzzle out the reason for this offer and draws a blank. 

“I’m good,” Stiles says brightly, jumping off the couch and gathering his stuff as fast as possible.

“Stiles—”

“_I’m fine_.” Stiles turns to face Derek. “I’ll let you know what I dig up about the possible spells from those ingredients.”

Derek’s eyes flash red, and _holy shit_.

Stiles holds both hands up, backing up toward the door. Not so much that he’s afraid of Derek, but more that he is not in the mood for whatever Dramawolf is throwing down. “Look, you asked me to help so I’m gonna fucking help.” He smiles sharply. “Deal. With. It.”

“I do want your help,” Derek clarifies from between gritted teeth. “I just think you should sleep.”

_What_? Is Derek…_concerned_? Like, yes, they are pack and save each others’ lives. But concern over things like sleep is something new entirely. From Derek, at least.

“Oh.”

“You’ll sleep.” Derek’s voice brooks no argument.

“Okay, Jesus!” Stiles throws his arms in the air. “I’ll sleep. Some. No promises on how much.”

“You know I can check to make sure.”

Stiles takes a step back toward the door and hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the exit. As he’s walking backward he says, “Dude, that’s creepy. That’s beyond creepy. That’s next-world-level disturbing.”

He’s confused at the expression Derek’s face makes. It’s hurt, which Stiles knows, of course, but he doesn’t understand why he’s the cause of it. This is too much too soon and too confusing, so Stiles escapes as soon as he hits the door.

_What the hell was that?_

*

“Dude,” Scott says as they make their way to lunch. “_Dude_.”

“What?” Stiles asks, more innocently than is warranted. The only way he had stayed awake during English was by imagining Derek showering after a bloody fight, water glistening down his fine, fine chest, his abs and slicking up his giant, hard—

“Dude!” Scott says, slapping his shoulder. “You’re doing it again.”

Stiles grins, shit-eating. Scott deserves it after all of the explicit details of his and Allison’s trysts. Scott merely shakes his head, as though knowing he’s facing a losing battle, and they head into the cafeteria. Stiles isn’t hungry, too raw from exhaustion, but pulls a Red Bull from his bag. Mmm, hot Red Bull. The drink of champions. 

While Scott is getting his food from the lunch line, Stiles downs the noxious sugar-energy on crack that is Red Bull. How he wishes he had some of Derek’s coffee instead. Thinking of that reminds him of Derek making him coffee because he knew Stiles was tired. 

Scott slams his tray down on the table—or at least it sounds like a slam to Stiles’ frayed nerves—and Stiles will totally admit to jumping as he fumbles for his Red Bull. He might’ve fallen asleep for a moment. No, not even a moment. Like, a second.

When Scott is seated across from him, just them alone at this huge table in the corner, _their_ table, Scott pauses in bringing the inedible-looking burger to his mouth. He frowns and squints at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles asks. “Do I have a booger?” He wipes at his nose.

“No, man,” Scott says. “You look.” He pauses. “Tired.” 

Stiles raises his eyebrows and bites back a surge of what almost feels like fury. Is Scott just noticing this now? Does he not know that Stiles hasn’t been sleeping well since this whole werewolf thing started? Since Lydia almost died? Since Gerard beat him into a pulp? Since Derek—

Nope.

Stiles closes his eyes and forces out a breath, a lengthy sigh that seems exponentially too loud. It’s not Scott’s fault. He’s not always the most observant, but he cares about Stiles and he’s had his own burdens. It’s striking how much more Derek seems to note about him, how he’s been commenting about Stiles’ exhaustion for months. Like Derek can _see_ him. Like he knows, somehow, that Stiles feels like a walking, talking ghost and that his skin is too tight over his bones.

“Yeah, I was up late researching the spell ingredients I was telling you about this morning.”

“What did you find out?” Scott begins to devour his burger and Stiles opens his Red Bull and takes one nasty ass gulp. 

“There’s several combinations of spells she could have been brewing up,” Stiles says. “But the most likely one seems like a mind-reading potion.”

“Mind-reading?” Scott asks. “Whose mind would she want to read?” He chomps down on a handful of fries. “And why would she be in the Preserve?”

“Fuck if I know.” Stiles shrugs and yawns widely. “You good with meeting Tall, Dark and Grumpy tonight?”

Scott sighs like Stiles has just asked him if he was looking forward to detention. “I don't like it, but I’ll do it.” Scott narrows his eyes at him. “But I can handle Derek. I want you to get some sleep.”

“Yes, _honey_,” Stiles says and bats his eyelashes sweetly. 

Scott cringes and throws a fry at him.


	3. Chapter 3

_I have no self-preservation instincts_. 

Stiles is, once again, trudging through the Preserve, dead leaves crunching under his sneakers. This is such a normal activity these days, that he knows he should’ve brought an actual flashlight instead of just relying on the flashlight from his phone, which is not nearly bright enough. As a result, he keeps getting whipped in the face by wayward branches that have punctured numerous holes in his favorite red hoodie.

He wants someone to blame for this foolhardy plan, but he really and truly has only himself to blame.

What Stiles does have, if not self-preservation, is a sense of direction and he finds the southwestern area easily enough, even though it’s a less frequented section of the Preserve that requires a 30-minute walk through dense forest with few well-maintained trails. 

He trips over more than one root on his journey and his ankle hurts like a bitch by the time he’s freaking out at how low his phone battery is. He’s searched high and low with no sign of lycanthropes or witches, and he’s about to give up and text Scott when he hears the faint siren song of bickering werewolves. 

He’s almost positive he’ll be detected first, but Scott and Derek are apparently too busy with their werewolf posturing to notice when he gets close enough to hear their heated conversation. He rolls his eyes. So over dramatic and exactly one of the reasons he decided to haul his ass out here in the cold when he could have been home playing Fall Out and leaving the freaky supernatural shit to the experts. Or, you know, sleeping!

Except. Stiles sighs. _He’s_ the expert, isn’t he?

Moving closer and pausing behind a tree, he peers out and Scott and Derek’s gruff voices become more distinct. 

“You’re working him too hard!” Scott is saying to Derek, pushing him back against a tree. Derek’s eyes are vibrantly red and they’re both wolfed out. “He isn’t sleeping anymore.”

Derek, fangs dropped and fists clenched at his side, looks super pissed. Stiles has seen Derek’s normal levels of pissed. This is a whole different level. This seems personal. 

“I haven’t had him working on anything until the last night or two,” Derek snarls.

Normally, he’d love to skulk behind the tree and listen for the truth—the things people won’t tell him to spare his feelings—the very things he wants to know least and yet wants to know most. He’s a bit of a masochist in that way, always has been. He was that kid who listened in and sneaked around—hell, he still is. But for some reason, he doesn’t think that right here and right now he wants to know what Scott and Derek would say about him, unfettered and without knowing there’s an audience, especially if that audience is Stiles himself.

Truthfully, Stiles doesn’t want to know what Derek thinks about him.

Stiles edges closer, out from behind the cover of the scraggly oak he’s been hiding behind. 

“Then why is Stiles so adamant on improving his magic all the time?” Scott asks and he’s closer to Derek now, up in his personal space where he has Derek pressed against the tree. “He hardly sleeps!” Scott repeats. “He’s researching for you all the time, every hour of the day!”

Stiles grits his teeth, feeling like all the air has been sucked out of him, like he’s been flung against a tree and he’s broken something dear and vital.

On second thought, Stiles doesn’t want to know what Scott thinks about him either.

Derek snarls, stepping closer. “You know Stiles,” he says. “That’s who he is. The idiot doesn’t stop until he’s run himself ragged. I’m _trying_ to get him to sleep while still—”

“_You’re_ trying to get him to sleep?” Scott laughs, deeper than usual, eyes flashing gold. He’s encroaching further into Derek’s space. “You’re a selfish asshole, Derek. You’re taking advantage of how Stiles feels to build your pack—”

Stiles, who has been edging ever closer on light feet, decides this would be the prime time to cut into the conversation before the world around him is wrecked beyond salvaging by Scott telling Derek a little too much about Stiles’s feelings.

Oh, and before they kill each other. That, too.

Derek roars and launches himself at Scott and they go down in a flurry of fur, fangs and claws. 

“I would _never_—” Derek is saying, words cut off as Scott scratches his claws along Derek’s shoulder, slicing through his T-shirt and flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter.

“You already are, asshole!” Scott yells back. 

E-fucking-nough already! Stiles jogs up to them, crunching through leaves and generally causing a ruckus that doesn’t seem to disturb Scott and Derek’s stupid brawl in the least. Good thing Stiles isn’t something intent on killing them, or they’d be dead meat.

“Hey, dumbasses!” Stiles yells and comes to stand right beside them. Turns out, he gets too close, hissing as a claw scratches through his jeans and grazes his calf. Stiles feels the hot trickle of blood down his leg, and it takes only a moment for both Scott and Derek to stop their wrestling and stare up at him in confusion. It’s almost comical, them both wolfed out on the ground in a tangled heap, clothes shredded from nicks and scratches, and mouths open with fangs descending, like some kind of Halloween comedy gone wrong. “Good! Now that you’ve stopped trying to kill each other, could you please, oh, I don’t know—” he says, elbow in hand and fingers tapping his chin. His eyes pop wide. “Maybe _stop trying to kill each other_?”

Derek’s the first to overcome his stunned confusion. He narrows his eyes at Stiles, fangs receding, face smoothing into its human features. There’s still a glow of red in his eyes, though, when he says, “I told you not to come.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing I did! Otherwise you two might’ve clawed each other to itty bitty werewolf pieces, and what good would you been to anyone then?”

Derek shoves Scott off of him with more force than necessary and gets to his feet in graceful movements that Stiles both envies and relishes watching. Derek’s jeans are blood-spattered. He looks kind of dangerous.

Stiles barrels on. “I mean, you two didn’t even hear me and I was crunching through the leaves!” He waves his arms around. “Aren’t your spidey senses supposed to be good for something, or did you lose all kinds of common sense while you were too busy arguing about me.” Stiles makes a face of disgust and mimics, “Don’t come to the woods, Stiles, but we’ll certainly talk about you while beating each other into a pulp! What if I had been a troll? Or the witch? Or a gremlin? Insert your nemesis of choice here—there’s plenty to go around!”

“_Shut up_,” Derek seethes. Stiles opens his mouth to continue on his tirade, disregarding Derek’s command, when Derek moves quickly and pushes him back against a tree. Great! Now Stiles is going to be beaten into a bloody pulp too! Goodie!

Stiles can hear Scott growling and gnashing his teeth, as if from a long distance away; it all feels so surreal, the tree hard against his back and Derek’s palms hot on his shoulders. Stiles nearly swallows his tongue when Derek falls to his knees in front of Stiles and begins lifting up his pant’s leg. 

Stiles feels so weak-kneed, like some kind of damsel in distress (and he’s pretty sure that overall in this situation, that’s not _him_), that he has to clutch at Derek’s shoulder. From behind Derek, Scott stops his movement toward them. His eyes are still glowing gold, catching in the moonlight, but his mouth is open, and he’s frozen. Scott’s not growling or moving. Stiles, himself, can scarcely breathe.

But he can always speak.

“If you wanted to take off my pants, all you had to do was ask,” Stiles says. He wonders if the statement registers as a lie to their werewolf hearing because, really, Derek didn’t need to ask. Stiles is pretty sure he’d let Derek do anything he wanted to him—and, oh fuck, now he’s getting hard in front of Derek. Like, literally, right in front. Derek’s face is _right there_.

Derek looks up at him and one side of his mouth quirks upward, probably at the look of unadulterated...whatever the fuck is on Stiles’ face right now. “You got cut,” Derek says, and Stiles remembers the slash of a claw across his leg and the resulting sensation of flowing blood. It doesn’t hurt, feels superficial. Although, given his adrenaline, Stiles probably wouldn’t feel it if someone capped him in the knee. Derek rips the sleeve of his T-shirt off in a single movement that isn’t helping the situation in Stiles’ jeans whatsoever, and starts to dab at Stiles’ wound. After absorbing most of the blood, Derek grazes his fingers across his injury, his forearm momentarily flashing with black veins as he removes whatever pain is there. 

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, blinking down. “Are you, like, playing nursemaid right now?”

Derek raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to speak.

Oh, God. 

“Don’t even answer that,” Scott and Stiles say in unison, probably for entirely different reasons. 

Derek, thank God, obliges in keeping quiet and shoves Stiles’ pant’s leg back down and stands in one fluid movement. Derek’s shirt is ripped to shreds and Stiles can’t stop staring at the place where Derek tore away the fabric so he could clean his cuts. Maybe Derek blames himself for Stiles getting injured. Derek _is_ the human embodiment of guilt. Yeah, so that’s it. 

Scott comes up to Stiles and Derek and rubs at the back of his neck, a tic he adopts when he’s nervous. 

Well, he should be nervous.

“I assume you guys haven’t seen anything out here with all that stealthy fighting and yelling you had going on.” Stiles moves away from the tree tentatively, pleased that he can stand on his own. “Go team!” Stiles cheers sarcastically and leads the way further into the woods, hoping he’ll set the trend of not fighting and actually discovering _something_. Really, it was probably a wild goose chase. Just because Scott and Isaac had smelled witches (or whatever else could give off a witchy-smelling aroma) out here, doesn’t mean the witch is going to just be hanging around like in a badly written horror movie. 

They’ve been walking along for a few minutes, Stiles still being scratched by branches and tripping over roots. The forest grows thicker and thicker around them, and darker and darker. Stiles still uses his phone’s light since he’s not a werewolf with night vision. Derek brushes past him and mumbles, “Let me lead the way,” and Stiles is too afraid of having his eye taken out by a protruding treelimb that he doesn’t make a fuss. While Derek clears the path ahead of them, Scott moves closer to Stiles. 

“You scared, boo?” Stiles murmurs, slinging his arm over Scott’s shoulder.

“No, man,” Scott whispers into Stiles’ ear. “What was that with Derek earlier? That was _weird_.”

Stiles pushes away the butterflies in his stomach, his skin tingling all over at the phantom memory of Derek on his knees in front of Stiles, his gaze intent on Stiles’ skin as he wiped away the blood. 

“Derek’s always weird,” he says, assuming that Derek will still be able to hear them, regardless of their low tones. He’s saved from having to respond further to Scott when Derek stops in place in front of them, shoulders bunching up in tension. He flings an arm out to stop Scott and Stiles from advancing. 

Stiles steps ahead anyway, right up into Derek’s space, peering over his shoulder to see what Derek has found. 

Right in front of Derek, maybe 10 yards up, stands a figure with one hand on her hip. They can see her because she is levitating a ball of light above her hand, fingers caressing the gentle aura the object is emitting. She is young and blonde and is undoubtedly the person Beth had described coming to her shop seeking ingredients to make mind-reading potions. 

While she might not be a full-fledged baddie or want anything to do with them (the jury is out on that one), most of the strangers who wander into Beacon Hills aren’t here for good reasons. 

“Stay back,” Derek hisses to Stiles over his shoulder. He turns his head enough that Stiles can see his eyes are Alpha red.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the witch says, approaching them. She’s wearing all black, in sharp contrast to her white-blonde hair. 

“We’re on our nightly patrol,” Derek says. “This is my territory.”

The witch cracks a smile. “This was my family’s territory long before it was yours, Hale.”

If Derek is freaked out at being addressed by name, he doesn’t show it. “And it’s mine now,” he says. Stiles can’t see his face but he can hear the grin in his voice. “If you tell me what you’re doing here and that you intend to cause no harm, we might be able to work something out.” Derek shrugs one shoulder elegantly. 

Laughing, the witch smiles more broadly. “That’s the same thing Talia told us, and yet she betrayed my mother.” Her smile grows sharper. “I don’t make deals with anyone, especially not werewolves. I get what I want, _when_ I want it.”

Stiles snorts and says, “That doesn’t sound rape-y at all,” before he can help himself.

The woman’s gaze flicks to his, where he’s close behind Derek’s shoulder. “Ah, yes. I heard about you. Hale’s poor excuse for an emissary.”

Stiles mouth drops open, and then he laughs. “_Emissary_?”

“You’re barely eighteen, right?” The witch laughs and puts her hands to her sides, the ball of light still floating mid-air. She turns her attention back to Derek. “What kind of Alpha employs an Emissary barely out of diapers?”

Stiles grits his teeth. Whether or not this witch is just spouting off at the mouth or she’s there to string them up by their wolfy tails before eating their eyeballs for dinner, she’s going down.

Except Stiles doesn’t bother to correct her on her assumption of his age. He wouldn’t be doing himself any favors by telling her that he’s barely seventeen. 

“You need to get your facts straight,” Stiles says, leaning more into Derek’s shoulder to address the witch, even while Derek shoots him a murderous glance which no doubt means _Shut up, Stiles!_ “I’m not an Emissary.” He could tell her about his Spark; he’s sure she can sense it, but he learned a long time ago not to show his cards.

Her mouth curls up in a sneer and she coldly turns her gaze back to Derek. She hasn’t even acknowledged Scott’s presence. “Speaking of facts,” she says. “I want to know the location of the Hale vault. Something precious to me resides there. Talia promised it to us years ago and never followed up on her promise.”

Derek tenses. “Could that be because she _died_?”

“My condolences,” the witch says dryly, and wow, Stiles really is going to enjoy knocking this one down a peg or two. Or a thousand. “This was before her death.”

“I don’t believe my mother ever mentioned anything like this,” Derek says. “And if there’s a vault, I have no idea where it is.”

She grins, wide and shark-like. “I thought you might say that.”

“What was your mother’s name?” Derek asks, like he’s actually trying to place her and the story.

“Mary,” she says, and at first, Stiles think she’s being sarcastic, but she’s totally straight-faced.

Stiles snickers. “Mary? Shouldn’t she have been named The Dark Esmeralda or something with more pizazz?” 

The woman’s eyes glow silver for a moment before a large fireball comes hurtling his way. Derek shoves him to the ground and out of harm before Stiles can even think to formulate a barrier spell. Stiles is glad to not be singed, but ow, that was not a light landing. 

“Get your Emissary under control, Hale, or he won’t be spared next time.”

Derek wolfs out and roars at her, stepping closer. “You won’t touch him.”

“I won’t if you give me what I want,” she says, while Scott helps Stiles off the ground.

“It doesn’t matter what you want. You’re not touching Stiles,” Derek says. “Or any of my pack.” 

“You won’t even hear my offer?” she asks, eyes still silver.

“I was going to,” Derek says, “but now that you’ve threatened my pack? You can load up your shit and get out of Beacon Hills. You have four hours, and if there’s even a whiff of you still around, you’ll regret it.”

The witch snorts, like she’s amused. “Suit yourself,” she says and extinguishes the light. In the dark, she says, “I’ll show you regret.” 

And with that, she’s gone, almost like she vanished. 

Stiles is on his feet, with Scott’s hand still wrapped around his wrist, having helped him up but now holding him back so he won’t do anything stupid. 

“Is she gone?” Stiles asks after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Derek says and then walks over to Scott and Stiles. “You can never keep your mouth shut, can you?”

Stiles grins. “Nope.”

Derek shakes his head and leads them out of the Preserve while Stiles bites back his questions about being confused for an Emissary and this mysterious Hale vault and if Derek knows anything about Mary or her presumed daughter.

Stiles rubs at his eyes, knowing he’s looking forward to another night of researching all things that go bump in the night.

*

Before Stiles goes home, he drops by Scott’s and showers because Ms. McCall is working late. Stiles also keeps some fast-healing accelerant potion there, so by the time he gets home his face won’t look like he fought the Whomping Willow and lost.

Stiles tries to sneak in when he gets home, looking inconspicuous by wearing some of Scott’s dirty but not bloody and shredded clothes and his backpack draped over his shoulder, but no such luck.

The door opens before Stiles can get his key in the lock, revealing his dad.

To say his relationship with his dad is strained these days would be a massive understatement. His dad still doesn’t know about the werewolf shenanigans but sometimes Stiles imagines he knows more than he lets on. He’s a smart man. 

“Kind of late for a school night, Stiles,” his dad greets him, moving back from the doorway to let Stiles in.

“Sorry, Pops. Got caught up with Scott.” He smiles but has a feeling it’s more of a rictus grin rather than anything approximating normal—or normal for Stiles. 

“Your car wasn’t at Scott’s on my way home,” his dad says, voice flat and expression morphing into his interrogative face.

“We weren’t at Scott’s,” Stiles says. “We went to the diner. For dinner. To eat. Y’know.” He waves his hands around.

“Then why were you parked at the preserve?”

Fuckity fuck fuck. He hates this shit and feels even more horrible that he doesn’t feel more horrible about all the lying he does. “Eating. We went there to eat.” Stiles doesn’t even have to ask to know that one of his dad’s deputies probably spotted him and called it in. His dad has an army of spies at his disposal. Stiles is gonna have to start riding with Derek. 

Not that that’s a burden.

Dad knows he’s lying but he doesn’t say anything, just sighs gustily and studies Stiles’ face like he might find some secrets lurking there. His expression is concerned.

“You look...” he says, considering. “Tired.”

Stiles palms his face. “You sound like Scott and Derek.”

_Shit._

“Derek?” his dad says, latching onto the name like a hawk after prey. “Derek as in Derek Hale, fugitive?”

“No!” Stiles says. “Well, _that_ Derek was declared innocent.” He bites his lip. “But uh, this is a new Derek. A more cheerful Derek. You know, a fun one.”

“Uh-huh,” his dad says, squinting dangerously. “You better not be having too much _fun_ with this Derek.” 

Stiles mouth drops and he groans. “Oh my god, Dad.” He waves his hands around. “No fun, I’ve not been having any fun. Much to my dismay, let me tell you.”

“Please don’t tell me,” John says drily, but the concerned brow furrow is back and he puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “But if you do need to talk, son, you know I—”

“I’m not having sex with Derek,” Stiles interrupts. Jesus, his foot-in-mouth disease has worsened overnight. “With anyone, named Derek, or otherwise.”

“Good,” John says.

“I’m gonna go.” Stiles points to the kitchen and briskly walks away to grab a Poptart for dinner and another Red Bull before clomping upstairs and opening his door. When he closes it and throws his backpack down, the window opens and Derek somersaults in.

“This is going to be really awkward if my dad comes up here,” Stiles says. “Just sayin’.” And bites into his Poptart.

Derek rises from his soft landing, squinting at Stiles like he’s a puzzle to be solved. Derek opens his mouth, perhaps to ask what the hell Stiles is talking about, but thinking better out of it, gives his head a little shake.

“What are you doing here—?”

“How’s your leg?” Derek asks, nodding at said leg. Stiles might have forgotten all about the injury if not for the memory of Derek kneeling down before him. 

“I think it’s fine,” Stiles says, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand touching his pants where the claw marks had been. They had mostly disappeared by the time he had used the ointment on them and showered at Scott’s. 

Still staring at Stiles’ leg, Derek takes a tentative step forward before meeting Stiles’ eyes. “Let me see.” It sounds a bit hesitant, although not quite a question. 

Stiles laughs. _Nope_, not this again. He’s beyond exhausted, the vapor of a zombie, even, and he doesn’t have the mental or physical wherewithal to deal with Derek getting all touchy-feely again. 

Even back when Stiles wasn’t using his magical abilities much, he wasn’t _this_ fragile. Derek’s knight in shining armor shtick is getting old. It’s already old. It’s ancient.

He’s done being treated like an afterthought or a liability. 

“No,” he says and he knows his eyes burn a brighter amber than usual. 

Derek stills, eyes flashing back red on instinct, like he won’t back down from a challenge. Or maybe it’s not blind instinct. Maybe it’s just his reaction to Stiles. 

“No?” Derek echos, irises still ringed in red, his voice low and a touch sinister. 

A cold breeze rips through the still-open window, raising goosebumps on Stiles’ bare arms. 

He shoots back off the bed, not liking to look to Derek to answer. “No,” he repeats. “N-O. Non! Comprends-tu?” Stiles grits his teeth against the wave of anger rising up beneath his skin, feeling like it’s burning up the empty husk of his tired, used up body. “I’m not a fragile human anymore, Derek!” His smile turns sharp and mean. “I know it’s not particularly appealing, but my human packaging is still in working condition.”

Derek stares at him like he’s never seen him before, the red vacating. What’s left is frightfully human and pale. “That’s not what I meant,” Stiles says, shoulders slumping, all the fight going out of him. Derek studies him, raises his hand as if he’s going to put it on Stiles’ shoulder, but then lets it fall to his side, more in defeat than an effort for control.

“I know you’re not fragile,” he says. “Far from it.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “Then why all the—” He doesn’t know how to summarize the strangeness Derek has been displaying. 

“You’re pack,” Derek states.

Which, yes, Stiles knows that, but it still feels good to hear it.

“So, you’re...watching over me?” Stiles asks, testing the words on his tongue. “Making sure I don’t kill myself?”

“Something like that,” Derek says, mouth quirking. “It would be hard to explain your death to the Sheriff.”

“True,” Stiles says. “And who would do all your research?” This reminds Stiles of something vital from the woods. “Speaking of which, what was all that talk about me being your emissary.” Stiles pauses. “_Am_ I your emissary?” The thought alone is ridiculous. 

But then Stiles remembers what he does for the pack and how assured the witch had seemed. It is ridiculous, though. Right?

Derek cringes. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and Stiles watches him with some amusement. He’s not quite sure he’s ever witnessed such a parade of emotions over Derek’s beautiful face before. His eyebrows are doing something entirely new, and instead of freaking Stiles out, it excites him. It’s something new about Derek to catalogue and dissect. 

“It’s complicated,” is what Derek comes up with.

“How profound,” Stiles says and collapses back onto the bed, this time flinging himself all the way back. “Come on, big guy, you’re gonna have to do better than that.” 

His eyes are so fucking tired. He closes them and breathes a sigh of relief. The tide of exhaustion overwhelming him is more powerful than his curiosity over this business of being the Emissary or what had happened between the witch’s mother and Talia; even whether or not this Vault was actually a real thing and if Derek had been lying about not knowing about the supposed Vault. Stiles would bet his right nipple that Derek had been lying.

“You’re exhausted,” Derek says, soft, and Stiles deflates. 

“I need to know,” he mumbles. “Emissary or no, do not pass go, do not collect $200.” He yawns widely and hears Derek clicking off his lamps. 

“We’ll talk about this later.” Derek starts taking Stiles’ shoes off. 

_His shoes off. Derek taking them off._

Is he hallucinating? He sinks back further into his bed.

“I’m setting your alarm for the morning,” Derek says. “If you promise to sleep, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“You’re a sadistic bastard.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says, and Stiles, who has been fighting sleep for days, succumbs to the tide.


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes after being robbed of sleep for so long due to supernatural shenanigans or whatever Wikipedia spiral he’s been down, Stiles feels even worse after getting an ample night’s sleep. Thank all that’s holy, that’s not the case when Stiles wakes the next morning. He’s operating on all cylinders. As he takes a quick shower, his curiosity runs away with him when he recounts the previous evening’s events and all the resulting questions that are now driving him crazy.

He showers and then dresses perfunctorily, before grabbing his phone and sending Derek a barrage of texts. Stiles is gonna get answers, yessir.

Stiles: okay sourwolf, you won. i slept for five glorious hours. now it’s time to pony up some answers  
Stiles: what’s with this emissary thing? If i’m your emissary shouldn’t you have idk TOLD ME ABOUT IT?????  
Stiles: what happened with this mary business?? and i know there’s a vault. you can’t keep things from me

When Stiles had woken up, he’d had plenty of time, but now that he glances at the time on his phone, he sees he’s gonna be late for first period, which means it’s just another day that ends in a -y and it’s also a school day.

*

After first period, Stiles still doesn’t have a reply from Derek, which is just not acceptable. Derek is probably, at this very moment, running through the Preserve, stretching his wolfy muscles.

He’s leaning against his locker and thinking about Derek running in basketball shorts (and nothing else), as he texts again:

Stiles: you can’t ignore me asshole. ESPECIALLY IF I’M YOUR FUCKING EMISSARY?!?!?!?  
Stiles: ????????????

He’s still furiously typing in extraneous question marks when Lydia approaches him.

The expression on his face must give away his intensity because, after Lydia clears her throat to get his attention and he looks up, her head tilts, a small smile on her face. “Do I need to come back later when you’re not trying to kill your phone?” she asks. “Again?”

Stiles opens his mouth to deny that he’s a murderer of phones, but that would be a lie. 

“No, it’s fine,” he says, with a sigh, pressing send and putting his phone into his back pocket, where it wouldn’t die. Probably. “I was just trying to get Derek to answer questions. You know how it is.”

“All too well,” Lydia says. “Although you know he withholds information from you the most.” Her smile is sly and Stiles feels something drop in his stomach. Just when he was starting to feel more like pack due to Derek’s newfound TLC routine.

“This time he’s gonna sing like a fucking canary.” The first bell sounds and Stiles jumps. He still needs his book for second period. He scrambles to open his locker and Lydia moves to his other side gracefully. 

“What are you trying to find out now?”

Stiles’ voice lowers so only Lydia can hear. “Meet me at lunch and I’ll tell you about our run in with the witch last night.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows. “And you didn’t think to invite me? Or at least tell me sooner?”

“It was kind of a spontaneous thing.” Stiles makes a face and grabs for his chemistry book. “But the witch—who was deeply unpleasant, by the way, total bitch—”

“Stiles.”

He slams his locker, and they walk to their next class. Stiles needs solidarity when dealing with Mr. Michaels, their horrible AP English teacher, whom Stiles once suspected of being a ghoul.

Keeping his voice low, which Stiles has gotten better at over the years—thanks Dad—he says, “The witch mentioned she’d heard I’m the pack’s Emissary.”

“_What_?” Lydia says, grabbing at his elbow.

“That was my reaction, too! Have you heard anything about this Emissary shit?”

Lydia’s brow scrunches as they approach the classroom. “No,” she says slowly. “But you do perform some of the basic functions of an Emissary. Maybe that’s what the witch had heard about and conflated those duties with the Emissary title?” She shrugs.

“Makes as much sense as anything else I’ve heard,” Stiles says, “but I’m asking for a pay raise.”

A pay raise with blowjobs.

*

It’s lunch time and there’s still been absolutely no contact from Derek, so he resorts to truly desperate measures. He needs to meet Lydia in a few minutes to tell her more about last night, and he has no time to play around. He ducks into a bathroom that’s rarely in use, locks the door behind him, and calls.

Luckily, Derek picks up on the first ring.

“Shouldn’t you be trying to learn something?” 

“Cut the sass, Derek. Have you or have you not been getting my texts?”

“_Have_,” Derek says with feeling and not a little bit of sass. God, Stiles loves him.

_Fuck_. Fuck, no. No he doesn’t.

“Then why the hell haven’t you answered? Huh? _Huh_?” 

Derek sighs. “I needed to think, Stiles.”

“I can see how that might be hard, but you owe me some answers.” Stiles’ fists are clenched and he can see in the dirty bathroom mirror that his face is red with frustration.

“I know,” Derek admits. “After school, come to my apartment. We’ll talk.” 

“We better or you’re going to find a new minion to do research.”

A gusty sigh. “For fuck’s sake, Stiles. You’re not a minion. Far from it.”

“Then why—”

“Stiles,” Derek cuts him off. “Come by this afternoon. I’ll make you coffee.”

Stiles must be a fool. “With the biscuits?” Derek likes fancy English biscuits, because of course he does.

“Don’t push your luck,” Derek says and the call ends. 

And still, Stiles smiles. 

Scott runs into Stiles as he’s coming out of the bathroom smiling like a loon. 

“What were you doing in there?” Scott asks, nose wrinkled up. The bathroom must smell even worse to sensitive noses.

“Talking to Derek,” Stiles says.

Scott makes a face. “Gross, Stiles.” He turns around and leads the way to the cafeteria. “I mean we all knew it was going to happen.”

Stiles follows him on autopilot with his mouth open. “What the hell are you talking about, dude?”

Scott turns around and moves in close and makes a face, similar to the one he had when he walked in on Greenberg jacking off in the locker room. “_Phone sex_,” he whispers.

Stiles doesn’t dignify that with a response as he enters the cafeteria in search of Lydia.

*

When the final bell rings, Stiles is up and out of his seat like a shot. He already has all his books with him, snagged from his locker right before last period, even though he’d been late to class.

“Stiles!” Scott calls down the hall, and how Stiles can hear him above the hubbub of the fleeing students without werewolf hearing is beyond Stiles. Maybe it’s a lifetime of conditioning. 

“See ya later, man!” Stiles calls over his shoulder, dodging students until he’s one of the first cars out of the parking lot. Stiles grins like he’s won a Tough Mudder competition as he races from the parking lot and calls his dad, letting him know he’ll be home late. 

Derek might think this is gonna be a quick Q&A. Ha!

*

The elevator is _still_ out when he gets to Derek’s and he might climb the stairs a little too quickly because he’s panting like a dog after he finishes. He’s taking a moment for himself, leaning against the wall, pulling oxygen into his poor aching lungs, when the door opens and a head pokes out into the hallway.

“Do you need CPR?” Erica asks, red mouth curling into a smirk. 

Stiles pretends to laugh raucously, hand pressed to his chest, and then his face transforms into his best poker expression and he walks forward till they’re close. 

Erica raises an eyebrow.

“I’d take you up on that offer. Maybe. If Boyd wouldn’t slaughter me.”

She places a hand on his shoulder. “I like you,” she says, smile small and genuine. Stiles smiles back and is about to ask where the man of the loft is when Derek appears behind Erica and looms. His frown is the stuff of constipated daydreams and he’s wearing that damnable green Henley again. 

“Erica.” There's a bit of a growl in his voice and his eyes flare red. “I think it’s time for you to head home, don’t you?”

Erica’s smile remains plastered on her face, this time as a sardonic instrument of battle, and her shoulders stiffen as she glances over her shoulder, eyes flashing gold in supplication to something that’s stronger than Stiles originally detected. 

“Gonna kick me out, boss? That’s not very polite.”

Derek rolls his eyes at her. “I’ll call you later.”

Erica brightens and her smile becomes real. “Till then, my love!” And she passes by Derek back into his apartment, leaving Stiles and Derek to stare at each other. Stiles opens his mouth, but doesn’t have time to get a word out before Erica is sweeping out of the apartment with a purse over her shoulder. 

“Missed you in school!” Stiles calls as she rounds the corner to the stairs, she salutes Stiles with a middle finger and a smile. 

Stiles smiles back. 

There’s a low growl in Derek’s voice when he snaps, “Can you contain your crushes to girls outside of my pack?”

_Really_? Is he that oblivious? Can he not smell the arousal exuding from Stiles?

“Girls?” Stiles asks, sliding past Derek into the loft. “I think you’re forgetting boys are fair game, too.” There's a sharp grin on his face, but like Erica, it’s all armor. His hands shake as he finds a seat on the couch. 

He’s out generally, but he hasn’t laid it out in specific terms for Derek. Until now. 

Stiles is looking down at his hands as he settles on the couch, but looks up now to see Derek hasn’t moved from the door, where it still hangs open. 

Derek hadn’t struck Stiles as the homophobic type but maybe Stiles is about to be kicked out. He sits up straighter, prepares to speak, but Derek beats him to it. 

“You’re bisexual?” Derek asks evenly and kicks himself into action, closing the door and moving into the apartment. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says—more like croaks. It sounds like there’s a frog in his throat. 

_Way to be sexy._

“I didn’t know,” Derek says and before Stiles can comment on Derek’s lapse in scent reading and general powers of observation, he moves toward the kitchen and comes back a moment later with a cup of coffee, which he shoves in Stiles’ hands. 

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, relieved as Derek settles next to him on the couch with his own cup.

“I did promise,” Derek says with a quirk of his mouth. 

“That you did.” Stiles takes a sip of the coffee and his eyes flutter closed in response. “God,” he groans. “So good.” He licks his lips. “You make the best coffee. Can I keep you?”

When he’s done taking several more sips of coffee he looks at Derek, his ears a bright red and his eyes dilated. 

“You okay?” Stiles asks.

Derek swallows. “Yeah. I’m just appalled at your manners.”

Stiles mock-gasps. “Well, mister, _I_ am appalled at your inability to tell me prudent details.”

Sighing deeply, Derek puts his mug down and turns to face Stiles. 

Stiles makes sure to meet his gaze head on. “Am I your Emissary?” 

Derek sighs. “Strictly speaking, no. We haven’t had a ceremony or talked about it. But—“

“_But?_” Stiles prompts, gesticulating wildly.

“You fulfill some of the duties of an Emissary.”

_That’s what Lydia said_, Stiles thinks, but doesn’t dare say it aloud because he’s not looking to add any obstacles to this conversation by bringing up Lydia. 

“Like research?” Stiles asks. 

Derek runs a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping. “Like research,” Derek agrees. “You also help me make decisions.”

Stiles jaw drops. “I do what now?”

Derek rolls his eyes, but his mouth curls up and his voice is something Stiles would dare call _warm_ when he says, “You’re the only member of the pack that doesn’t just tell me my ideas are shitty—you help make them better. Even if you’re usually infuriating and intolerable while doing it.”

Derek takes a sip of his coffee, the steam still rising from it. “Your spark,” he says, gesturing all encompassingly at Stiles. “You’ve improved dramatically—of your own volition, despite Scott thinking I’m a slave driver.”

Stiles mouth twists, about to remind Derek he’s sometimes a control freak and can often be a slave driver, but the words die before ever passing his lips when Derek mumbles, “Shut up, Stiles”, and Stiles grins into own coffee.

“Your skills with potions and spells, defending the pack, being a binding agent of sorts for the pack—a mediator.”

Stiles _might_ be grinning like a loon but he can’t really help it. It’s almost like a dream, sitting here in Derek’s warm if utilitarian loft, light from the sunset painting the room a golden hue, and Derek extolling Stiles’ apparent virtues. Or at least skills. But Stiles would like to think of them as virtues.

“A mediator? You call me insulting people and telling them their plans suck being a mediator?”

“You improve plans. You help people learn, and you do it.” Derek cringes and says softly, “You do it better than I do.”

Stiles can’t do anything but gape.

Derek looks at his expression and rolls his eyes. “So no, you’re not my Emissary. But you could be seen as one, considering all you do for the pack. When you’re not driving us all insane, you can be helpful.”

“You can’t compliment me without insulting me, can you?” Stiles grins, waving a hand around and almost slopping coffee on himself. He sets the mug down. “I imagine you have a ratio or something.”

“You’re not satisfied with anything,” Derek says dryly. 

Stiles sits and thinks. He wonders, and sometimes when he wonders it’s dangerous. But it’s now or never. He needs to know and Derek seems uncharacteristically open to answering questions.

He swallows and gathers his courage. “Could I ever be your Emissary?” Stiles asks. “Like, for real?”

Derek’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline, so clear is his shock, and Stiles’ stomach drops. 

He laughs bitterly, sour-sick clumping up in his stomach, words lodging in his throat. The air feels too thin, depleted of oxygen. 

If just the question is so shocking to Derek, then surely the answer must be no.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles remembers to breathe. He knows that voice and what it means. He’s heard it plenty of times before and during panic attacks before when Derek has been the only one who could talk him down. 

Stiles takes a few deep breaths and meets Derek’s gaze. He looks concerned. It’s clear in his eyes: “I like your role in the pack right now,” Derek says. “But I don’t think it would be a good fit long term.”

“Good fit long term,” Stiles echos, mouth twisting bitterly. Great, it sounds like some kind of horrible firing, like Stiles isn’t a good fit for the pack, a good fit for Derek. “That sounds like a job.”

Derek’s brow scrunches up as he thinks. “It _is_ a job, Stiles. And usually a lifelong one. An Emissary makes a pledge to an Alpha for life. It’s possible to disengage but it’s not often done.”

Honestly, Stiles gets that, but he’s not sure how to let Derek know he would pledge his loyalty to him for life, as an Emissary and in other ways that he’s sure Derek doesn’t want to know about. Stiles will think about this in private, but for now, he has more pressing concerns: like what the fuck was going on with this mysterious Vault.

Stiles picks up his mug again to have something to do with his hands. The sinking feeling in his stomach hasn’t gone away yet, but he has to press on.

“What’s up with that vault? I know you were lying—” Stiles says “—or at least not admitting everything.”

Derek actually barks out a laugh, and the sound goes a long way in settling Stiles’ nerves. Stiles can’t help but reciprocate the laugh. “Sue me, I notice things.”

“Another of your limited qualities,” Derek says. He leans back against the couch. “My mother did have a vault that she inherited from other packs in our family. It housed a fortune and heirlooms, texts and magical artifacts.”

Stiles waits patiently, the only noise the faint blare of a car horn.

“My mother used the vault, until.” Derek swallows and Stiles nods, indicating understanding. “After that, we stopped using it. I didn’t trust that the Argents or other hunters weren’t aware of it.” Derek sighs. “But it doesn’t exist anymore. At least, it’s not used by me. I have a new location for those types of things.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, a little surprised that he doesn’t know where Derek keeps such things now, especially if there are magical items involved. His palms itch with the desire to feel, touch, wanting that _zing_ of magical connectivity.

He’s not the goddamn Emissary, he reminds himself. He doesn’t need to know where these things are.

“So you really don’t know the location of what our witchy friend wants?”

“No idea,” Derek says. “And I’m hoping it’s a moot point now since she should already be out of town.”

“Witch, be gone,” Stiles says with a hearty snap of his fingers.

*

“So,” Dad says, interrupting what had been a peaceful dinner with his horrible attempt to be casual. “Tara said she saw your Jeep parked after school at that new apartment building on the outskirts of town.”

Stiles shovels broccoli into his mouth, taking his time chewing. 

“At first I wondered,” his dad continues just as casually, “who you might know that lives there, but then a property search of the building’s tenants yielded a familiar name.”

A second car looks more and more like a necessary expense so his dad can stop easily stalking him around town. Roscoe could stay safely parked at Scott’s as a decoy while he goes to Derek’s, Beth’s shop, or generally runs around town killing ghouls and magicking baby werecoyotes to safety. Werecoyotes, seriously. What will the universe think of next? Werejaguars?

Silence is his best weapon in this situation so Stiles maintains his methodic chewing, even takes another bite, while he keeps his eyes trained on his dad. 

“C’mon, Stiles. Don’t play dumb.” Dad pauses. “Even though we both know you’re more than capable of it.” 

Stiles makes a suitably offended face, fork halfway to his mouth with another bite of food. 

Dad crosses his arms over his chest and leans forward slightly in his chair. The change in posture takes the conversation from casual to more official. “You were visiting Hale.” A beat. “Weren’t you?” It’s more of a statement than a question. 

This would go better if Stiles could play it cool. “_Fine_, I was.” Some quick thinking and what emerges from his mouth is: “Derek is tutoring me in Spanish.”

Dad narrows his eyes. “You don’t take Spanish.”

“No, not usually,” Stiles says, slowly and clearly. “But. But my midterm project in AP European History involves Spanish.”

“Let’s assume we both know that’s not a lie.” _Or not_. Dad waves a hand in the air slowly, as if showcasing all of Stiles’ many lies to him, as if Stiles isn’t eaten alive by the sheer number of them near constantly. “Why wouldn’t you ask Scott?”

“Scott is too busy tutoring Allison and Isaac in invested in the fine art of French,” Stiles says with a lewd grin, hoping beyond hope that it will make Dad change the subject.

His dad scrubs a hand through his hair. “I need to bleach that from my brain, son. Thanks for that.” He puts his arms on the table. “Now, stop trying to deter the conversation, Stiles. You’re telling me you decided not to ask someone at your school—_your own age_—and instead asked a much older, very attractive man for help?” 

Stiles eyebrows shoot up. “Very attractive?”

His dad rolls his eyes. “I’m not blind, son. And it’s not lost on me that you appreciate attractive men.”

Stiles starts coughing and has to find a napkin. 

“It’s fine with me, son, but did you really have to pick _Hale_?”

It takes a moment for Stiles to put himself back together, because _what?_ Since when does his dad know that he likes guys?

Red-faced and eyes streaming from tears of the post-hacking-up-a-lung variety, Stiles smiles winningly, going for a new diversion tactic. “I don’t know, Pops. It sounds to me like maybe _you’re_ interested in Derek.”

His dad looks momentarily disgusted and then just shakes his head, the familiar shake that’s a little fond and a lot fed up with Stiles’ antics. 

Then he gets this evil glint in his eye that never bodes well, and says contemplatively, “If I _did_ want a younger man to call me daddy—”

“_Oh my God_!” Stiles yells and flees, bolting from his seat and taking the remainder of his mac ‘n cheese upstairs while his dad cackles downstairs. “You’re evil!” Stiles calls down the stairs.

“That explains a lot about you, son!” his dad calls back.

Ugh, Stiles needs all of the brain bleach. _All of it. _


	5. Chapter 5

It’s pitch black in his room when Stiles wakes up on his stomach, face smushed into his pillow. One of the books he had been using to research warding spells digs painfully into his thigh. It’s not abnormal for him to wake up from a dream without warning, but this has a different feeling—a feeling he’s grown all too accustomed to. 

It’s the feeling of waking up to someone else in his bedroom.

The room is too cold, for one, like the window has been open for a while, and Stiles has the tell-tale feeling of being watched. 

What’s disturbing about this—even more disturbing than his window serving as a revolving door for all the friendly neighborhood werewolves—is that the protection wards he put on the house to keep out the baddies are no longer humming under his skin. It feels like a lifeline has been severed. Which means that the creeping creeper could only be one person.

Stiles groans into his pillow. Why does he live in the epicenter of creepy again? 

He rolls over, already considering which defensive spells he can use. He flips on the lamp beside his bed. Yep, there she is, smirk on her pale face and long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. 

Stiles tilts his head and tries not to make a big show about pulling his sheets up over his threadbare t-shirt. “Did you see a welcome mat outside of the window saying “Welcome All Ye Nemeses!”?” A dramatic pause. “_No?_ Well, great. Shoo! I think it’s time for you to go.”

“You talk too much,” she says, smirk becoming more of a grimace, like she hadn’t bargained on this. 

Stiles grins. “Well observed. Now, don’t let the window hit you in the ass on the way out.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the witch says, edging closer to the bed.

“What’s your name?” Stiles asks, both for practicality and information. When she narrows her eyes at him, he says, “Jesus, it’s just a name.”

“There’s power behind names. Isn’t there...Mieczyslaw?” 

Her pronunciation of his name is perfect. A chill passes through Stiles, but he tries not to let it show. “You know my name, surely I should know yours?”

“You needn’t know it, but fine, if it will get you to shut up. You offer no real threat either way.” She smiles. “Phoebe.”

“Well, Phoebe. I’d say pleasure to meet you, but it’s not so much of a pleasure, is it?” His smile is sharp. “Let’s cut to the chase: what the fuck is it that you want?”

“Your Alpha has something that belongs to me in his vault. I need it back. You are his Emissary. You will persuade him to hand over what is rightfully mine.”

“One,” Siles says, holding up a finger, sitting up a little straighter. “You might recall that said Alpha told you to leave town. It’s way past the allotted time he gave you to get out of Beacon Hills. Derek is cranky at the best of times. You piss him off? You’re in a world of trouble.”

“I’m not scared of him,” she seethes, teeth flashing in the light. “I want what’s mine.” Her fists clench and she approaches Stiles’ bedside.

“Well, you should be.” Stiles shrugs, like if she wants to put her life on the line, that’s her own damn prerogative. “Two: there is no vault. Derek already told you that, as well. Or do you have a problem with listening comprehension? Now, no hard feelings, Phoebe, but it’s time for you to get the hell out of Dodge and go back from whence you came—”

One second he’s talking, perhaps getting a little carried away, and the next he’s mute. His mouth moves, lips shaping the words, but no sound comes out. 

“Listen to me,” she says, and something about her words sink into him and hold. 

_Crap_, he thinks, and then he thinks no more. Just listens and obeys.

*

The house is preternaturally quiet as Stiles slips down the stairs with nary a sound. Not even the normal creak of the third stair breaks the silence. He’s sharp and quick in his converse, red hoodie pulled over his head. He has nothing but his wallet in his pocket, a tube hidden in his the pocket of his hoodie and his keys in hand. The keys don’t jingle.

The drive to the new building on the outskirts of town is moonlit and quiet. Stiles’ mind is barren but for his mission—it’s peaceful, like looking at the surface of a still lake. His brain is usually a tsunami of action, but now there’s nothing. Maybe he’ll stay like this.

He parks in front of Derek’s apartment and climbs up the stairs without losing his breath in the slightest.

When he knocks at Derek’s door, it’s three in the morning. Derek’s hair is sticking straight up and he has pillow creases on his cheek. “Stiles?” he asks, voice gruff. His cheeks are flushed from sleep. “Are you okay?”

Stiles smiles. “Sure thing, big guy,” and he slides into Derek’s apartment without waiting to be asked.

Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles moves to sit on the couch, takes his normal spot, and looks up at Derek. Derek’s brow furrows and he walks forward. His hands open and close, like he’s not sure what to do. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

“I’m fine.” Stiles bites his lip and widens his eyes. “I had a nightmare,” he whispers.

Derek is at his side in a flash, hand on his arm, but only for a moment. Derek hisses. “Stiles, you’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles repeats, a smile suggesting tranquility on his lips. 

“Stop!” Derek orders. “You’re not fine. You’re freezing. Something’s not right.”

Derek grabs Stiles’ chin and angles it up for a better look. Derek’s fingers are unwanted on his skin, human and wolf and hot, loving. It makes Stiles want to vomit, but he looks up at Derek all the same.

Suddenly, Derek’s eyes flare red. 

“You’re not Stiles.” Derek’s grips Stiles harder before relaxing his fingers all at once, probably not wanting to hurt the precious human cargo. 

“Of course I’m Stiles.” He smiles crookedly. “Don’t I smell of patheticness? Unrequited love and need?”

Derek roars, wolfing out, and Stiles might feel a quiver of danger. He likes it. Stiles smiles, and this time it’s a smile that comes more naturally to him. 

“I was going to try to do this the easy way,” Stiles says and easily vaults over the couch, reaching into his back pocket for the potion there.

He’s about to unstopper the vial when he’s knocked out from behind.

The world goes black.

*

When Stiles comes back to the land of the living, both Derek’s and Erica’s faces are swimming in his vision. While Derek looks murderous, Erica looks concerned. It’s a weird expression on her. Sure, he’s seen her concerned before, but she usually buries her emotions under flirtation, threats, and fierce loyalty.

“Stiles,” she murmurs. Her hand is on his shoulder. 

“Why are you saying my name like you don’t know it’s me?” he asks weakly, throat parched. Derek disappears from his line of sight and Stiles might make a noise that sounds like a whine, even if Derek _did_ look spectacularly terrifying. His presence is soothing, especially when Stiles has no idea what the hell is going on and how he’d gotten here.

He’s flat on his back on the floor of—he glances around—Derek’s loft and his back hurts something awful, like maybe he’d been tackled to the floor by a werewolf linebacker. Based on past experience, that wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility.

“Fuck, my head.” Stiles brings a hand to his forehead and Erica’s fingers are soon combing through his hair and it’s beyond soothing. 

Heavy footsteps signify Derek’s return. Stiles realizes that his eyes have slipped closed, and he knows he’s safe. Here, in the loft with Derek and Erica. 

He’d also thought he was safe in his warded home in his own bed, too.

_Fuck._

Stiles bolts into a sitting position, almost braining Erica with his movement, and given that she is a werewolf with all the accompanying reflexes, that’s saying something.

“Oh my God. The witch.” Stiles groans, putting his head in his hands, the world spinning around him and his head throbbing. “Phoebe.”

He’s having trouble taking in oxygen through the pain and the confusion of the realization that Phoebe had been in his room, had known his name and had done something to him. Something to make him potentially hurt Derek. He gasps in a desperate search for air.

A glass of water is shoved into his hand and Erica helps him tilt his head back so that he can drink, the water cooling his throat.

“Stiles!” Derek says. Derek takes both of Stiles’ forearms in a slightly too strong grip. But it does the trick. Derek counts and Stiles breathes. Erica runs her fingers through his hair again. The pain from his head is leached away and Stiles knows Erica is taking his pain. When he can open his eyes and see Derek looking murderous and concerned, he can’t stop the sob that erupts, unbidden, from his mouth.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what she did to me. My wards failed and she caught me off guard while I was asleep.” Stiles chokes on another convulsive gasp. “I don’t even remember driving here. Oh God, what did—”

“Stiles,” Derek says firmly. “It’s fine.”

“I could’ve hurt you, done something to—”

“_Stiles_,” Derek says, and then his hands are on Stiles’ face and Stiles has trouble breathing again because now he can’t breathe at all. Stiles can’t look away from the furious gray-green storm of Derek’s irises. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. You seem okay.” 

Stiles licks his lips, trying to find words and oxygen, anything to make sense of what has happened. 

Erica helps when she adds, “You’re lucky I was here spending the night, Stiles,” Erica says. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to knock you out and administer that antidote you’d given us in case something like this had happened.” 

_Spending the night._

Stiles remembers Derek seeming weird and possibly jealous when Erica and Stiles were flirting the other day. Stiles thought Erica and Boyd were mated, but...Erica and Derek? Well, they are both gorgeous. 

Stiles moves away from Derek like he’s been shocked. He can’t have Derek touching him, can’t think those thoughts about Derek when Erica is so close. It’s not fair to any of them. 

Unfortunately, when Stiles rears away from Derek, he falls back onto his elbows, hitting his funny bone. Derek is right back near him, touching his shoulder in what can only be described as tenderness, and Stiles can’t. He just can’t. He can’t handle Derek’s care again, this gentleness he’s been displaying more and more. It’s fucking with Stiles’ already tenuous control.

“Erica,” he says, “can you help me to the couch?” He closes his eyes and doesn’t look at her face or, God forbid, Derek’s.

“Sure,” she says, voice casual but loaded with confusion. Great. This is the icing on top of a horrible fucking evening.

When he’s on the couch with an arm flung over his face, Stiles says, “She gave me something. A potion. Ordered me to administer it to you, Derek, so you would tell me about the Vault.”

“I already told you about the vault,” Derek says.

“I know, but Phoebe doesn’t.”

“Who the fuck is Phoebe?” Erica asks, the echo of her feet on the floor belying her pacing.

“The witch.” 

“I’m going to rip her throat out—”

“With your teeth,” Stiles and Erica say in unison and Stiles doesn’t have it in him to laugh but he smiles and Erica laughs uproariously. 

“I’m not joking,” Derek says. “She attacked you in the middle of the night, Stiles. That—I won’t—” And then Derek starts growling. Like, straight up rabid animal growling. 

“Dude,” Stiles says, removing his arm from his eyes and staring at a fully wolfed-out Derek, “we need to think about this. Figure out what was in that weird potion she gave me.” He pauses. “You have it, right?”

“We do,” Erica confirms.

“Can I take it?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Derek says. “You can study it, if you want, but you’re not going home.”

“Then where the fuck am I going, oh Alpha of mine?”

Derek closes his eyes, looking pained. “Nowhere. You’re staying here.”

Stiles knows that he should feel affronted and outraged that Derek is trying to make decisions for him. _Again_. But Stiles can tell from Derek’s murderous face and the bit of fang still peeking out of his gorgeous mouth that Derek is just worried. He’s worried that Phoebe is going to come back and finish what she started, whether that means getting at Stiles directly, or to the rest of the pack through Stiles. 

But, much as Stiles appreciates Derek playing the protective Alpha, Stiles can’t just stay here for a long-term sleepover. 

“Dude,” Stiles says, “I have school. I know I’m precious and all, but you can’t just stash me here like some kind of kept woman.” He pauses, considering his words for a moment. “Man.”

“I wasn’t implying that I'm going to keep you here under lock and key.”

“I bet you’d like to,” Erica murmurs with a heavy insinuation that sounds like something from one of Stiles’ fantasies. Stiles knows she probably just means that Derek wants to keep Stiles under control so he can’t go off on his own to solve problems as he so often does.

“Shut up, Erica,” Derek says, flashing his eyes at her, but Erica’s smug smile doesn’t dwindle in the least. He turns back to Stiles. “I wasn’t suggesting that you can’t leave.” Derek sighs. “Although, maybe you shouldn’t leave. We’re not sure how powerful this witch is or what to do next when she learns that her ploy tonight was unsuccessful.”

“That’s a little extreme,” Stiles says, eyes wide. “Even for you.”

“Yeah, _Derek_,” Erica says, drawing out his name with a shit-eating grin.

Before Derek can go Alpha on her ass again, Stiles jumps in. “I’m more worried about my dad, to be honest. I can’t just say, ‘Yo, Dad, there’s a witch in town that wants a mysterious object and intends to use me for my magical skills to get to Derek, who, by the way, is the Alpha of our werewolf pack.’”

Derek shoots him a glare that lets him know he is Not Impressed™. “You’re the smart one,” Derek says and for a second Stiles almost puffs out his chest, “or so you think.” Stiles deflates. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“Fine,” Stiles says. “I’ve got to head home tonight, though. Dad will know something is up if I’m not there in the morning.” Stiles looks down at his feet. “Should I call Scott to come over and keep me company?”

“No,” Derek says. “I’ll go.”

“I don’t want to—” Stiles starts, bites his lips. _Fuck_, why does this hurt so much? It’s ridiculous. He looks somewhere in-between Erica and Derek. “I don’t want to interrupt your night.”

Erica sounds confused when she speaks. “You’re not interrupting anything, Stiles. Except my beauty sleep. Which I’m going right back to once you guys leave.”

“Not that you need any,” Stiles says with a grin without thinking and feels sheepish at the glare Derek sends him. Right. He needs to stop flirting with Derek’s girlfriend—or whatever the hell Erica is to him.

Erica grins at him, bright, like he’s just done some trick worthy of great praise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for underage drinking. No one gets wasted.

Stiles manages to slip back in the house with much less elegance than he’d left, but lucky for him, his dad sleeps like the dead. He’s not surprised that Derek insisted on riding with him back home in case Phoebe was lying in wait in his room. 

Stiles enters the house through the front door while Derek uses his bedroom window, as seems to be their proxy, but Stiles would have a hell of a time explaining Derek’s 5 a.m. visit to his dad. The sky is already lightening outside and Stiles needs to wake in an hour to get to school. He's contemplating using his much-abused spell to stay awake when he gets to his room.

Derek takes one look at him, as if he can read his mind, and says, “You’re taking a nap.” 

“But—”

“Do I need to take your clothes off for you?” Derek asks. It does the trick and Derek seems to know it, if his stupid smirking face is anything to go by. Stiles mouth snaps closed and he looks furiously at Derek. Stiles has half a mind to yank off all his clothes and make Derek watch, but he’s entirely too self-conscious, so for that so he just takes off his hoodie and climbs into bed. 

Derek is standing by the window like a guard dog and Stiles can’t stop shivering. The memory of someone taking down his wards, stripping away his own self-imposed safety, his control. The violation all comes sneaking in and it’s an avalanche and he’s shivering and wishing he’d kept his hoodie on—

“Stiles.” Derek settles a hand on his shoulder, and then he’s sitting on Stiles’ bed. 

“She broke through my wards,” Stiles says.

“I know,” Derek says. “You’ll fix them.” His palm is steady and hot on Stiles’ shoulder.

Derek is never tactile with Stiles like he is with the rest of the pack, and Stiles never initiates because he doesn’t want to know what it feels like and doesn’t want to seem desperate by asking. Once he takes Derek’s comfort he’s never going to want to stop. But instead of trying to drift off into a shallow sleep, knowing Derek will be watching over him, he finds himself saying, “Can you maybe lie down with me for a while?”

The silence that follows is thicker than any silence Stiles can recall ever sharing with Derek. Or maybe it’s all in his head. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, and it’s not in Stiles’ imagination that Derek’s voice sounds rougher than usual, almost wrecked, but that doesn’t make any sense. 

Stiles holds himself very still, scarcely breathing, afraid of this moment existing, afraid of it not existing.

Ever so slowly, Stiles hears the sounds of Derek unlacing his boots and he feels the shifting weight of the bed under his tense body. He’s jostled around a little as Derek stretches out and then, incrementally, Derek scooches closer. A long shudder slides down Stiles’ body when he feels Derek’s warmth next to him. 

Derek must mistake his shudder for something else because Derek’s sliding closer, and that sets off a wave of shivers. Then Derek’s surrounding him, hot and close, pulling Stiles against him in one fell swoop, no more hesitation, their bodies molded together and Stiles makes a noise.

“It’s okay,” Derek says, voice a low murmur near Stiles’ ear. “She won’t get to you again.”

“I know,” Stiles whispers, not bothering to correct Derek on the source of his world shattering into pieces. Now that he’s had this, Derek’s warmth and strong body at his back, arms tucked securely around him, hot breath in his ear—Stiles is _fucked_.

His eyes flutter closed and he relaxes into Derek.

*

When Derek shakes Stiles awake some 45 minutes later, Stiles is so tired and so at peace, he doesn’t want to move. What if he never has this again?

But then his Dad bangs on the door and yells that he’s going to be late and—holy God, did Stiles lock the door? He hopes to God he locked the door. He doesn’t need his Dad walking into his room while he’s spooning with Derek in his bed. He has a tried and true way to keep his dad out. “I’ll be right out! I’m, uh, finishing up a few things!”

There’s nothing but a heavy sigh and his dad’s footfalls headed back down the stairs. 

Stiles rubs his hand over his eyes and turns to Derek, who is smirking at him. “Oh, shut up,” he hisses and subtly adjusts himself when his back is turned to Derek as he gets out of bed.

*

His Dad is working a night shift that evening so Stiles knows he needs to find some way to convince his Dad to, you know, let him stay at Derek’s for an indeterminable period of time until the witch is dealt with. He hasn’t had time to think about how the fuck he’s going to handle this, but like everything else, Stiles wings it.

He’s on his way into the kitchen to grab some orange juice and a pop-tart, bookbag swung over his shoulder, when he finds himself saying, “Derek is under the weather.” A pause. “Poor guy. I’ll need to bring him some orange juice after school and maybe some other things. He’s all by himself, you know?”

Stiles’ back is to his dad, where he sits at the table reading a newspaper and nursing coffee, likely sneaking sugar into his oatmeal again, that bastard. 

“Hale, you mean?” his dad asks as Stiles puts the carton of orange juice back in the fridge. 

Stiles snorts, turning around. “No, Derek Jeter, Dad.” He rips into the Pop-Tarts’ packaging with his teeth.

His dad shakes his head minutely. “It’s way too early in the morning for that level of sarcasm.”

“It’s like you don’t even know me,” he says in pseudo astonishment before giving that up to bite into his Pop-Tart. Chocolate Fudge, hell yeah. He’s already gonna be late so he has to maximize his efforts. “But yeah, Derek Hale.” Time to go in for the kill. “I think he might have walking pneumonia. Dude thinks that because he’s built like a GQ model on steroids that he doesn’t need to take care of himself.”

“If he’s that sick then you definitely don’t need to be around him,” his dad says drily. “You can’t afford to miss anymore school.”

Too bad there isn’t an excused absence policy for Saving Beacon Hills From Supernatural Shenanigans.

“I know, Dad, but.” Stiles swallows and looks at his dad evenly. “He doesn’t have anyone.”

His dad looks at him plaintively for a minute and then sighs. “Stiles, it’s nice that you care about him, but—” 

Stiles is in the process of removing the brown sugar from the table, when his dad snaps, “Pay attention, Stiles. I want you to hear this and I want you to hear it loud and clear: _He is too old for you._”

He feels a blush as hot as the sun suffusing his cheeks and he buries his face in his hands, the Pop-Tart hitting the ground as a casualty. Way to play it casual.

“Dad, as you so _disgustingly_ pointed out last night, Derek is attractive. He’s way out of my league.” Stiles coughs. “Even if I were interested. Which I’m not.” He coughs again, claps his hands. “Anyway, despite what your depraved mind might think, we’re friends.”

“Friends.”

“Yes, _friends_. We’ve bonded over—” _I’m so going to Hell._ “—losing people important to us.”

His dad’s shoulders wilt and he takes a moment to drink coffee before saying, “I’m glad, son, but do you really think it’s your place.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I have that project coming up and I thought I could work on it at Derek’s for, um, a few days.” Stiles studiously looks at the ground and wonders if he can salvage the Pop-Tart. The Five Seconds rule is totally multiplied by at least six when you’re the one who cleans the floor, right?

“You think I’m going to let you go to Derek’s for a few days.” It’s a challenge, not a question.

“Well, no, but I thought I’d try asking.”

“How’s that going for you?” Dad asks, a hint of amusement lurking around his mouth. 

“I don’t know, Dad,” Stiles says, smiling. “You tell me.”

*

Stiles is thirty minutes late to first period and the proud owner of an after-school detention, but it’s all worth it.

“Your dad is letting you stay at Derek’s. Knowingly. At Derek’s.” Scott speaks slowly like he says it enough, it’ll start to make sense.

Stiles starts singing “We Are The Champions” loudly when his phone dings. It’s a text from Derek that he opens quickly and then nearly drops his phone.

_I’m glad you think I look like a GQ model, but I can assure you, I’ve never taken steroids._

“OMG. OMG. Oh my God. I am dying,” Stiles declares and promptly excuses himself to the bathroom. To die. Scott calls after him but Stiles doesn’t slow down.

*

Dinner that evening seems like a formal affair.

Stiles often eats on the sofa or at his desk or in bed—or basically anywhere that isn’t a table—except for when he isn’t eating dinner with his dad. Unfortunately, that happens more and more infrequently as shit in Beacon Hills continues to hit the fan.

When they all gather at Derek’s for meetings, they eat scattered around the living room. 

This—this is different—with Stiles sitting at Derek’s kitchen table while Erica sits across from him drinking a glass of wine. For some unfathomable reason, she seems to enjoy the taste. She certainly looks sophisticated doing it. No wonder Derek is into her despite her age. Plus, biting someone probably creates an intimate bond that would be unparalleled with other werewolves, let alone puny humans, magical or not.

“Why the sour face, sourpuss?” Erica asks, sipping at that wine now. Stiles grabs it from her and chugs it down. He grimaces, setting the glass down and feeling the need to vomit. Jesus, that shit is nasty. At least beer doesn’t taste like Satan’s piss.

“If anyone is a sourpuss around here, it’s the chef,” Stiles says with a nod toward the kitchen. Derek is in there sprinkling some kind of spice over whatever he made that smells so fucking divine. He’s even wearing a light blue apron over his black button down shirt and Stiles is not looking in that direction for a fucking reason. Derek is dressed up. And he’s cooking something nice. Clearly he’s trying to woo Erica. Maybe they’re at a negative point in their relationship and Derek is trying to flaunt his Alpha providing skills. Whatever the reason, Stiles has to look away, or he’s going to make a fool of himself.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” Derek offers, leaning down to peer into the oven and holy fucking hell, _his ass_, and Stiles looks away, mouth open and cheeks probably redder than red. 

“_Really_?” Stiles asks, scarcely able to believe it. Derek had never offered Stiles beer before, probably because underage alcohol laws didn’t make sense where werewolves were involved.

“Sure,” Derek says, “You’re not driving.”

“Ooookay,” Stiles says, heart in his throat as he stands and opens the fridge. He’s delightfully shocked to find a six pack of a beer he’s mentioned wanting to try in passing, which Derek must have remembered. It probably meant absolutely nothing to Derek, just that he had a good memory. But to Stiles, it was a rare show of attention paid to something he had remarked on with such nonchalance at the time, and he cursed Derek for being so goddamn perfect. 

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says genuinely and takes out two beers. He knows Derek doesn’t mind beer so he opens both and passes Derek one while he’s waiting for the rice to finish. Derek doesn’t say thank you but he looks at Stiles and quirks a smile, which is even better. And Stiles, in a feat of self-preservation, heads back to the table before the sight of Derek drinking his beer can give Stiles a hard-on before their nice dinner.

Stiles and Erica cheers with their drinks and Stiles finds the beer much more to his liking. They chat idly over gossip at school and soon enough, Derek places dinner on the table. It looks like entirely too much food, but delicious: roasted pork chops over rice with broccoli rabe and golden raisins. Or so Derek said. Stiles hadn’t even known raisins could be different colors. 

Derek hasn’t even taken off the apron. He’s sitting at the table still wearing it, and it’s so domestic and cozy-looking that Stiles would find it _easier_ if Derek were wearing nothing at all. 

Stiles might accidentally be making some noise (as he’s so prone to do in any situation where noises might be a consequence of the activity, ahem) because at a certain point he looks up from gnawing on a bone to see Derek and Erica staring at him.

“Um, compliments to the chef?” Stiles says, quickly wiping his mouth with his napkin, and feeling oddly self-conscious.

Erica grins. “He’s a great cook, isn’t he?” She smiles at him knowingly and Stiles looks at the bone he was just chomping at, appetite suddenly lost. 

“Yeah,” he says, “you’re really lucky.” It’s out of his mouth before he knows what he’s saying. Stiles blames the beer. Whatever is in that infernal liquid of truth-telling death?

Derek stops mid-chew and Erica stares at him with raised eyebrows, in the universal expression of _What the fuck?_

Stiles takes a fortifying gulp of beer as he looks at Erica. “I just meant that you probably get this home-cooked meal routine a lot, lucky duck,” he says, with the Full Monty eyebrow waggle. 

Derek and Erica are looking at him with twin expressions of the severely weirded out.

“Derek never cooks for me,” Erica says.

Oh, well, Stiles has put his foot in his mouth and called attention to the fact that Derek might be trying to make up for something he’s said or done to Erica or impress her and Stiles is just along for the ride since he’s sequestered here for the whole witchy situation.

This is beginning to feel more like a Stockholm syndrome situation, though.

“He should,” Stiles says. He’s already put his foot in his mouth, so why not go for broke? “Derek,” he says, “I thought you knew how to treat a woman.”

Stark silence.

Derek has gone pale, his good mood depleted like oxygen from a popped balloon and his expression taking on a familiar thundercloud of grief and hate and hurt. Fuck, Stiles put that there, when he wants more than anything to keep Derek happy, to encourage his good moods.

Erica’s narrowed-eyed gaze is on Stiles and one of her hands is now resting on Derek’s forearm, deceptively casual but Stiles is sure there’s a lot of werewolf strength behind it. “I think that Stiles, here, has idiotically reached the wrong conclusion.” Erica’s smile broadens. “Though it’s not an awful idea. We would make handsome children, wouldn’t we? And the sex? Wow.” She grins ferally with her wine-stained mouth at Derek, who looks both angry, shell-shocked, and deeply annoyed. It’s all in those terribly beautiful eyebrows.

Stiles’ brow quirks up. “Wrong conclusion? I’ll have you know I make excellent deductions!” He really doesn’t want to think about Erica and Derek making babies or having sex, but for some reason, Erica is talking about it like it’s some kind of mythical idea. Like it hasn’t happened. Like Stiles has come to the _wrong conclusion_.

His eyes are wide, his gut is snagging on something that feels awfully like hope. 

Hope, the bane of Stiles’ existence that leads him into thinking things like Lydia Martin could love him romantically.

“You—” is all Stiles can say.

Erica—his savior, he’s beginning to realize—turns to Derek and says with a smug smile. “Stiles thinks we’re fucking.”

“Dating,” Stiles is quick to amend. He blushes and waves his hand. “And fucking.” At the look of utter bafflement on Derek’s face, Stiles shoves a bite of broccoli rabe and golden raisins into his mouth to shut himself up.

“What in the world would make you think that?” Derek asks. Then his shoulders hunch as he looks down at the plate in front of him. “Nevermind, I don’t even want to know.”

Stiles feels the need to defend his position. He hates being the one to cause Derek to look so upset and dejected, so he wants Derek to understand. “Erica has been staying here!” 

“It’s true,” Erica says, toying with her fork. “We could have been fucking like bunnies.”

“If you two could stop talking about sex, that would be great for my mental health,” Derek says, and stands from the table. Stiles is afraid he’s leaving, but instead he just goes to the fridge and retrieves another beer, notably not bringing one back for Stiles.

Stiles, just to be an asshole, stands and goes to get another one. He’s not a supernaturally perfect man but he does have legs and he can walk, thank you. Even if he does apparently come to wrong assumptions sometimes. Hell, he _is_ human. And then there’s the fact that Erica and Derek aren’t dating, which means Derek is single. Which doesn’t matter, of course, but it still unburdens Stiles in a way and to an extent he’s not prepared to acknowledge.

He slams the beer bottle on the table and then realizes that he didn’t open it. He hovers there, wondering how greatly going back into the kitchen for the bottle opener will disrupt his melodrama, when Derek reaches across, snags the bottle, and uncaps it with his claw.

Speaking of dramatic. Jesus.

Erica is looking at him as she says gingerly, like he might be in danger of imploding, “I’m staying here because Boyd and I have been arguing.” She takes a sip of wine and her eyes look sad before she blinks and it’s gone. “And you know I can’t go home.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says and nods. “Totally wrong assumption. I’ve definitely made an ass out of me.”

“Not like that’s news,” Derek says with a small smile. Stiles doesn’t even care that he’s been insulted: he smiles brightly in return and they go back to chatting more easily. Stiles feels the buzz of the beer settle over him like a blanket and the food settle warmly in his stomach.

The worst part is when Derek laughs, head tilted back, and Stiles feels that hope again. Hope that Derek can be happy, surrounded by pack and friends.

_I can do this,_ Stiles thinks. _It’s enough._

It would have to be. 

And yet. Yet he wonders. If Derek didn’t cook for Erica, if they’re not dating, why _did_ he cook? Must have been to make Erica feel better after her fight with Boyd. He was allowing her to drink wine freely, after all. Yeah, that must be it.


	7. Chapter 7

After an awkward conversation on the phone with his dad, Stiles is in the clear to spend the night. The highlight of the conversation is Derek faking hacking coughs in the background, which nearly sends Stiles into a fit of giggles. It does the trick, though. Even if Dad seems to suspect something more is going on (and Dad is smart, he obviously knows _something_ is amiss), Dad doesn’t push it.

Erica and Stiles spend the evening watching Batman Returns, camped out on Derek’s couch. Derek comes and goes, sometimes reading _El general en su laberinto_ in his armchair and other times seeming to be cleaning up, almost like he can’t sit still. 

When it’s time for bed, Stiles knows he probably should shower for the morning. Being in close proximity to Derek all evening (even if it’s distant proximity) has been enough to have him half hard all night. He can’t—won’t—do anything about it here, even though the blue balls are gonna be epic. But he thinks the shower might help him relax enough to sleep.

For the last hour or so, Stiles and Erica have been swept up in talking about Scott, Isaac and Allison and how exactly that worked. Stiles refuses to discuss it in depth because, ew, but his eyelids are creeping closed until Erica graciously smacks him in the face. 

Stiles groans, stretching, thinking of how ready he is to sack out on the couch. Derek had kindly offered to make it up for him and Stiles is about to take him up on that offer. Although he has no idea where Derek has gone.

Stiles experimentally sniffs under his armpits, discovering he needs that shower. Right now. Desperately. He doesn’t know how Erica and Derek haven’t shoved him out of the loft yet because of the stench wafting off of him. 

“I should probably go shower,” Stiles says, shoving to his feet and nearly catapulting over. He didn’t realize how fucking tired he was.

“Need help upstairs?” Erica asks with a grin.

“Fuck off,” Stiles shoots back half-heartedly, grabbing his overnight bag from the floor and heading upstairs.

He should be researching, he knows, plugging away at figuring out where Phoebe was and what she would do next. There’s a limited amount of time to prepare for whatever she will dole out next but Stiles had been unwilling to fuck up the nice evening Derek had planned to concentrate on something like research. Plus, Derek is usually the type to be overcautious, so Stiles felt comfortable following his Alpha’s lead in taking the night off.

Stiles drags his duffel upstairs, feet heavy on the floor. When he reaches Derek’s bedroom, he finds the door closed. It’s the only entrance to the one bathroom with a shower. The half-bath is downstairs. Surely Derek won't mind if he knocks. 

And so, with a quickly intaken breath and a reprimand to himself to stop acting so strange around Derek, he knocks. 

It’s quiet for so long that Stiles begins to worry that Derek had gone to bed, when the door swings open, and there is Derek.

And Stiles’ brain short-circuits. All he can compute are what his senses instinctually send to his brain: Derek, wrapped in a towel low on his hips. Chest dripping with water, defined pectorals and taut pink-brown nipples and abs like an Olympian athlete. And hair. Chest hair and hair that leads down his tight abs and the sharp juts of his hip bones. And Stiles looks up and there’s shoulders and biceps and a strong neck and holy god—

“My eyes are up here, Stiles,’ Derek says, sounding cocksure and amused and, seriously, _fuck him_.

Stiles tears his gaze away from the perfection they were devouring to meet Derek's. It’s not any better, because there are Derek’s gorgeous eyes in his gorgeous face and his beard still looks damp and god Stiles wants to touch him everywhere right now with his mouth and his dick and — is it possible to want to subsume someone? Like, more than just fuck them, but overtake them and make them yours and crawl into them and never leave? 

Because, that. That is what Stiles wants.

Derek starts to look concerned, brows coming together. “Did you need me?”

Stiles whines. Actually whines, and then promptly wishes he could dissolve into the floor, his embarrassment is so strong. He has a boner that could hammer nails on top of that. 

“The shower,” Stiles manages to say, voice harsh and unrecognizable to his own ears.

“Oh,” Derek says. “Sure. Let me just grab a few things.” 

Here, staring at Derek’s back, which is just as horrible as looking as his front, Stiles decides he can’t do this. He can’t be in close proximity with this Derek. The Derek that wears aprons, and makes him home-cooked meals with golden raisins, and has beer Stiles mentioned wanting to try once. He can’t be around a Derek who curls up in his chair and reads old books in Spanish with grandpa reading glasses. He can’t be around a Derek who might be freshly damp from a hot shower or a Derek who lays out fresh blankets and sheets for Stiles. A Derek who protects him and smiles at him. A Derek who could never love Stiles like Stiles does him. 

A relationship Stiles is going to ruin if he _does not_ get ahold of himself—and not in the sexy way.

As Derek leaves the room in soft sweatpants and a t-shirt with a hole in the sleeve (fuck Stiles’ life), Stiles vows to do everything to get rid of Phoebe that’s within his power (even out of his power) so he can go home. So he can keep Derek in his life but at a distance so he can survive, so he doesn’t ruin this tenuous, indecipherable thing they have.

He squashes down any sense of hope he has. Because hope, that fickle mistress, is a bitch.

*

Stiles barely sleeps. What else is new, right? But the night before he had had an earth shattering epiphany. Like, he knew he was in love with Derek. But now? He knew he was _in love_ with Derek. Like, would happily lay his life down for Derek kind of love. Wanted to make Derek happy at his own expense kind of love.

As in Stiles was _completely and utterly fucked_ kind of love. Fucked upside down and sideways.

So he doesn’t sleep. Thankfully that morning, when Derek shoves coffee and what appears to be a whole container of banana chocolate chip muffins at Stiles, Stiles just groans and leaves, never more excited for the reprieve of school than he is at that very moment. God, he’s sick in the head.

Lydia finds him when he’s at one of his lower points. It’s before first period and he’s just taken a bite of one of the muffins and it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever had in his life. Stiles is just left there, with no words and no way out of this emotional turmoil but to bang his head against his locker. All the while moaning around the bite of bliss practically melting on his tongue. 

“Um,” is all he hears. When he turns to look at Lydia, all he can do is hold out the container of muffins.

She looks at them, eyebrows raised, and Stiles shoves them at her before resting his head against his locker once again, all pride lost.

“We need to do something about this,” Lydia says. Her voice might even be a little gentle.

Stiles agrees wholeheartedly. “Shoot me and get it over with.” That would put him out of this misery. Seriously, Derek is trying to kill him.

“No, I meant the witch.” 

Stiles turns to her, his face still mashed against the locker, cold against his forehead. “What does the witch have to do with this?”

“You’re having a breakdown over Derek, right?” she asks sagely. 

“How in the fuck do you know that?”

“Oh, Stiles,” she says, shaking her head, and drags him to first period. 

“We’re going to see Beth after school,” she says, and that’s that.

*

It’s a good thing that Stiles has such a great, _intelligent_ friend in Lydia because, much as he loves Scott, Scott wouldn’t be the man for this plan—or the werewolf for this plan, whatever.

Lydia seems to understand that they need to find a solution for this situation, and fast. So after school Stiles finds himself being dragged to Lydia’s car by his elbow and shoved in. Stiles rubs at his arm absently after buckling his seatbelt. Lydia is _much_ stronger than she looks. 

They swing by the Starbucks drive-thru for coffee and then head to Beth’s. She seems to have been expecting them, as she stands at her main desk, leaning against it with crossed arms and an expectant look on her face.

“Stiles,” she says with a warm smile. “I have just what you need.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, all sugar and vanilla goodness, and grins at her. “Is it a one-way ticket to Fiji?”

“Close,” she says. “It’s hopefully a way of getting Phoebe out of Beacon Hills.”

“Phoebe,” Stiles repeats slowly, raising an eyebrow. He coughs on the pine fresh incense that the humidifier puffs out. “You know her by name?”

“I didn’t,” Beth says delicately, examining her fingernails and then shooting Lydia a glance. “But Lydia explained last night.”

“Oh. Last night?” Stiles asks, smirking.

Lydia slaps his arm. “We went for coffee.”

“Coffee, huh?” 

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Trust me,” Beth says with a wink. “It wasn’t that interesting.” She reaches under the counter. “This, however, you should find _very_ interesting.” She produces a lavender potion in a glass vial. “It’s a potion that will shield Derek’s mind from Phoebe.”

Stiles thinks, eyes glued on the delicate potion before snapping up to Beth. “What about me, though? Phoebe might try to use me to get at Derek.”

“Based on Phoebe’s visit here earlier today and the ingredients she gathered.” Beth says, sounding rather blase about the whole thing, “she’s going directly to the source.”

“So I need to protect Derek as soon as possible,” Stiles says, cottoning on.

“Exactly.”

“How much do I owe you?” Stiles asks. 

Beth glances at Lydia and smiles. “It’s on the house.”

*

The potion is carefully stashed in Stiles’ pocket when he returns to Derek’s. He only took the time to go back to school and grab the Jeep before jetting over to the loft. Erica is out on a make-up date with Boyd, so Stiles and Derek, well, they have the place to themselves. It's unfortunately not nearly as sexy as it sounds.

They’re both seated on the couch as Stiles explains the recent turn of events to Derek. 

“Phoebe has been back to Beth’s.”

Derek’s eyebrows almost merge as one frustrated unibrow of doom and his mouth ticks down on the left side, a tell-tale sign of concern and frustration. “Beth didn’t alert me the moment the witch arrived?” Derek huffs. “It would have been nice to get a warning.”

“I guess Beth thought that would be crossing a line of some sort,” Stiles says, frowning himself. Sometimes Beth’s insistence to remain neutral in Beacon Hills throws a major wrench into their plans. 

“So, the witch—” At Stiles’ pointed glance, Derek amends it. “_Phoebe_. Phoebe went into the shop and bought ingredients?”

“Yeah, man.” Stiles rubs his palms over his pants several times. “There’s no pussyfooting around this time. It was definitely a potion for mind-reading. A specific potion that will work on humans and anything supernatural.”

“And that,” Derek says, eyeing the lavender potion glistening serenely in its glass vial on the coffee table, “will protect my mind from—-”

“Outside intervention,” Stiles supplies. “Of any kind.” Stiles has never worked much with these types of potions since they’re on a higher caliber of skill than he’s accustomed to. He probably could have brewed this potion himself, but it would have take a lot of trial and error, and even more sleep deprivation. 

Stiles shrugs. “Or so Beth claims.”

Derek sighs, which to anyone else wouldn’t be much, but it speaks volumes to Stiles and his degree in Derek Speak and mannerisms. Derek probably has a lot of pack or even family secrets he doesn’t want removed from his mind. And honestly, Derek had been victimized enough in his life that Stiles would be happy for this bit of protection gifted from Beth, if it works. 

“Do you want to take the potion?” Stiles asks, meeting Derek’s gaze.

Derek winces and looks down. 

“I—” his voice cracks on that syllable, and that’s new. Derek has Stiles’ full attention, though he really had it already. Derek swallows and then turns to Stiles. They’re so close their knees touch, and Stiles wants to pull away, but he’s helpless to do so. “I need to tell you something.”

“Are you going to be a father?” Stiles asks to cover up his sudden and unaccountable nervousness. “Erica _was_ talking about handsome babies last night.” 

“Stiles, for the very, _very_ last time: there’s nothing going on with me and Erica.” Derek wrinkles his nose and it’s the cutest thing Stiles has ever seen. “Or Boyd. Your mind is depraved.”

“You have no idea,” Stiles mutters and buries his face in his hands in a desperate bid to stop speaking. 

“_Stiles_,” Derek says, and Stiles’ attention is now latched onto Derek because Derek’s hand is on his own, pulling it away from his face. It’s broader than Stiles’ hand and he can’t look away from where it’s touching him. He has one glorious moment of this and then Derek says, “I lied to you.”

At first, the confession doesn’t make any sense to Stiles. The only reason in the world is in Derek’s gorgeous loft with the last rays of sunlight breaking across the wood on the floor. In the warmth of the bookcases and the leather couch underneath them and the smell of coffee in the air. Very alarmingly, Stiles realizes, it feels like home, even if it’s not his.

But then it trickles in: the truth, which is apparently a lie. 

“Lied?” Stiles echoes, turning to look full-on at Derek. Derek’s not moving his hand, and it’s destroying Stiles’ world each second it’s there, all the while putting it back together again. 

Derek closes his eyes, nostrils flaring, and then looks at Stiles dead-on. “The vault.”

“The vault,” Stiles says. The night where they all encountered Phoebe in the woods. It festers in Stiles’ mind, and he recalls how he knew Derek had been lying. When he speaks next, it’s not with any doubt or confusion. “You lied to me,” he says, and he knows it. He knows it. And it’s confirmed by the look of pure unadulterated guilt that Derek shoots his way.

“I did,” Derek says, gritting his teeth. “I was trying to protect you. The pack. I was trying to protect the pack.”

Stiles rips his hand away, unable to stand the comforting heat radiating from it, its sense of belonging. 

It seems that that was the only connection keeping Derek anchored to the couch, because he’s up and off the cushion like it’s burnt him. Derek stalks over to the kitchen table and grips its edge. The wood splinters and Stiles grits his teeth. Maybe he should just leave. He stands, and Derek quickly says, “No, wait.”

And Stiles, fucked by Derek hook, line, and sinker? Well, he waits.

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” Derek sucks in a breath and the table splinters further. The table where just last night they were having an awesome dinner. “I was trying to protect what remains of my family. I—”

“And you didn’t think I would protect it?” Stiles snarls, lungs suddenly heaving for breath. “I thought you trusted me. I thought I could help. I thought we were pack.”

“We are,” Derek says, voice small. “We are. Just let me explain. You—-you’ve lied. To protect me.”

Stiles sits, considers, and then deflates. It’s true. He’s lied numerous times, over and over, to the pack and to Derek. Most and worst of all, to his dad, the person he loves most in the world. Plus, he has to give Derek credit. Derek’s admitting it, coming clean. 

Okay. He needs to put aside his own hurt for now and focus on the bigger picture. Derek is obviously as upset about it as Stiles.

Stiles can’t stand to see Derek like this, clutching the table and hunching in on himself. “It’s okay,” he soothes, up on his feet and slowly approaching Derek. For reasons even he can’t fathom, he says, “I’m going to touch to your shoulder.” He pauses. “Is that okay?”

Derek stiffens minutely and Stiles thinks he’s about to be roared at or thrown across the room. He reprimands himself for the thought. Derek hasn’t been violent with him in ages, hasn’t shoved him against any walls or threatened to rip his throat out. Even if Stiles didn’t mind the manhandling part, it’s probably based on his own insecurities, and his fear of rejection. It wouldn’t just be a refusal of his sympathy, it would mean so much more than that. 

Derek’s soft answer pulls him from his worries. “Yeah.” Stiles carefully puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder, grips it harder than necessary after a moment of hesitation, and asks, “Are you hiding anything else from me?” It shouldn’t matter, everyone has their secrets. Yet, Stiles would be lying to himself if he believed it didn’t hold significance.

Derek goes tense instantly. “I mean about the vault,” Stiles clarifies as quickly as possible. “Anything else about the vault.” He doesn’t want Derek thinking he wants to know all his deep, dark secrets.

“No,” Derek says, voice deep and rough. “It just houses my family belongings. Magical tomes that survived the fire. Some things of mine that I didn’t want taken. Some money.”

“Some money”? Sties laughs. “You mean a veritable gold mine.”

Derek raises his eyebrow and says to his lap, “I need to clean it out anyway. I’d like it if you helped me with that after all of this.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, eyes wide as he stares at Derek, but Derek won’t look up. He nods, though, and that’s enough.

“Okay,” Stiles says, voice rough. Why him? Why would Derek want him? He sighs, takes a deep gulp of air. Does it matter right now? There are more important things to consider.

A moment of silence. Carefully, Stiles speaks. “I think,” he says slowly, “since you’ve shared this with me, we should both take the potion.”

Moments tick by and then Derek nods slightly. “Okay,” he agrees. 

Derek has been much more agreeable this evening than Stiles had originally been expecting. In fact, Stiles had came to the loft ready to fight tooth and nail for this, because that’s what he did, but now with Derek’s acceptance to take the potion, Stiles isn’t quite sure what to do. It seems like a sign to mull the decision over.

Or maybe it’s Stiles’ natural tendency to fight Derek on everything.

Either way, the loft stands quiet while Stiles analyzes the situation. The practicality in taking the potion sooner rather than later is clear: Phoebe has made it obvious that she’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants and now that there is a clear and present danger—namely that the vault _does_ exist and there’s information to be learned—it’s better to get this over with as soon as possible. Plus, if they take the potion, it’ll give them the time they need to find a way to stop Phoebe and send her packing, meaning Stiles will no longer be forced to stay with Derek, which he’s proven he can’t handle without resorting to drastic measures. Prime examples include staring like a creeper or coming dangerously close to putting his mouth on Derek’s, and well, everything. Consent is important, okay?

“Let’s do the damn thing,” Stiles says, releasing Derek’s shoulder and maneuvering around the kitchen to grab two small glasses. Cabinet door still in hand and reaching for the first cup, he wonders if the potion is a single serving or if it can be split between two people. After all, that was a pretty small vial. But then again, some of the strongest potions need only the smallest of sips to do their job. 

Stiles yanks his phone from his pocket, shooting a quick text to Beth. He drums his fingers against the counter, staring at his phone until the ellipses pop up and then the answering text comes through. She confirms that it’s fine to split the potion, that it won’t lose its potency. Stiles nods his approval; apparently Beth had prepared for this eventuality. 

Stiles forgoes the cups and swipes the potion from the coffee table. He heads back to Derek, who is still poised over the kitchen table, and holds it out to him to drink first, the normal precaution in all these types of situations, Beth-made potion or not. Werewolves are better taste-testers than humans since they don’t die easily. Stiles presses the vial into Derek’s hand. 

“Down the hatch,” he instructs. Derek stares at the potion for a moment, making no effort to unstopper it. God, he better not have changed his mind already. “Don’t make me grab a spoon and start making choo choo noises.”

“Choo choo?” Derek shakes his head and uncorks the potion. He swallows half and grimaces like he’s tasted something deeply unpleasant., With one forearm over his mouth and his eyes closed tight in displeasure as the potion hopefully works its magic, Derek holds the vial towards Stiles. 

Great, now it’s Stiles’ turn. 

It says something deeply troubling about Stiles’ mental disposition that he’s more excited about putting his mouth on the glass vial where Derek’s mouth has been than worried about taking the potion and its possible after effects. He’s not 17. He’s apparently a twitterpated 12-year-old. 

When Derek doesn’t keel over and die or start foaming at the mouth, Stiles brings the potion close to his nose. Its noxious smell of strong burnt sugar assaults his senses and he quickly pulls the vial away from his face. Stiles mimes a cheers, although the sentiment is lost on Derek as his eyes are still closed. Then Stiles swallows it down. It’s cloying and all ashy cinnamon on Stiles’ tongue. This potion tastes like where gingerbread cookies go to _die_. 

It takes all of Stiles’ focus not to vomit the potion back out. He also flings his arm over his mouth, and he’s sure his face looks like he’s just swallowed pickled spleen juice. Stiles wants nothing more than to chase the monstrous taste down with water but he knows better than to dilute the effects. So they wait, standing in the middle of Derek’s loft, taking in deep breaths to gasp in clean air. The sugary feeling of the potion has seeped its way into Stiles nose and lodged there, seemingly inescapable, no matter how much he breathes. Warmth spreads down his body like shocky electric currents, synapses firing on and off. An overwhelming sense of pressure builds in his brain.

To say it’s wholly unpleasant would be a vast understatement. 

Derek is the one who recovers first. “Well,” he says, coughing. “That was foul.” The way he says it, so dry and understated but still so full of meaning, sends Stiles into hysterics. He laughs and laughs, until he’s curled over himself, laughing, and it only gets better when Derek starts laughing, too. When Stiles regains his composure enough to stand and wipe tears away from his eyes, he looks up at Derek.

Derek is really the worst, all crinkled eyes and scrunched nose and smile. Stiles feels like he’s been bowled over by the entirety of his _feelings_, and ugh. There’s no way Derek can’t smell all of that on him, but still, Derek’s face doesn’t shift from humor to anything less pleasant, which is just weird. Maybe Derek has just learned to ignore it.

Just when Stiles thinks he won't be able to speak, he says, “What do we do now?”

Derek’s cheeks are pink from laughter, fuck Stiles’ whole life, when Derek replies through lingering chuckles, “I thought you were the one with the plan.”

“I am! Usually!” Stiles raises his arms. “I wasn't exactly anticipating this turn in events.” 

“Aren’t you the one always telling us all to be prepared for every eventuality?” Derek quirks an eyebrow.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles says as he goes to the kitchen to grab Doritos and a Coke from the stash Derek now keeps on hand for the pack. He needs to _think_, and he can’t do that while staring at Derek.


End file.
